J squeezes his hand back, holding onto that moment to soothe his worries. It's all a mess, he knew it was, and it probably always will be, and maybe it was stupid of him to try and make some kind of gesture towards he doesn't even know what now, some sort of peace for a part of their past that won't ever be peaceful, and he can't expect S to sit and try and unravel that now, not just because it's Christmas and he wants Christmas to be pleasant, but also because they simply haven't tried to address it in any real way thus far and that's probably not going to change today. It makes him uneasy, having that unsettled. It didn't before, but he hadn't brought it up, even obliquely, and he has now, even if that wasn't entirely his intention. But S wants to move on, and it's for the best. He says later, maybe, and J doesn't know if that's true, but he at least hears S reaching back, and that's enough to calm a little of his lingering nerves.
It helps, too, to see S reach for a box, ready to open it. It gives J something else to focus on, turning a roll of film over in his hands for no reason but to touch something, to move. "Mm," he echoes, nodding. He can't quite remember which one that is — the scarf, possibly, the softest J could find, long enough S can bundle it around his neck a few times against the cold, a dark but warm forest green J thinks will look pretty with his eyes. Or it might be the gloves, as close in shade to the scarf as he could find, soft and lined, with something special done to the fingertips so he can use the touchscreen on his phone without taking them off, the better for J to besiege him with messages while he's out. It is, he's pretty sure, one of those, because he somehow managed to fit the scarf into the same kind of gift box he bought for the gloves, since they came in a pack of two and he knew he'd just end up wrapping them into a weird paper lump with horrible shreds of tape at odd spots if he didn't box them first. "Ah, if you end up not liking it — whichever one that is, any of them — you can always exchange it for something else, of course."
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It helps, too, to see S reach for a box, ready to open it. It gives J something else to focus on, turning a roll of film over in his hands for no reason but to touch something, to move. "Mm," he echoes, nodding. He can't quite remember which one that is — the scarf, possibly, the softest J could find, long enough S can bundle it around his neck a few times against the cold, a dark but warm forest green J thinks will look pretty with his eyes. Or it might be the gloves, as close in shade to the scarf as he could find, soft and lined, with something special done to the fingertips so he can use the touchscreen on his phone without taking them off, the better for J to besiege him with messages while he's out. It is, he's pretty sure, one of those, because he somehow managed to fit the scarf into the same kind of gift box he bought for the gloves, since they came in a pack of two and he knew he'd just end up wrapping them into a weird paper lump with horrible shreds of tape at odd spots if he didn't box them first. "Ah, if you end up not liking it — whichever one that is, any of them — you can always exchange it for something else, of course."