There's a strange sort of relief that always comes when S admits that J got something wrong. It's a ridiculous thing, he knows, when they're both deeply aware of how much he's fucked up in the past. Somehow, though, the fact that S can acknowledge the smaller errors makes J feel a little better about being forgiven the bigger ones. In any case, he'd rather have been wrong trying to look out for S than having deliberately hurt him.
He wants to tell S that it's okay, that he doesn't need to apologize. All that matters right now is that they understand each other, that they've made themselves clear. S knows what he means now, why he worried, that not wanting this kind of decision made for him isn't the same thing as him not wanting S to make choices ever. It bothered him when he was younger because, as always, he was caught up in his own perception of things, projecting his fears onto S's behavior. He understands better now. Even if part of him still fears now that he'll become somehow too much, in his heart, he knows S won't let it come to that, not ever.
He wants to tell him that, to say it's alright and he understands, but there's a pause in the air, the sense of something more to come, and he waits. And in spite of this whole debacle, the way S was playing when he walked in and the mess he's made of it all and the things he's managed to say in words either blurted out or broken off, he doesn't quite expect it. He's spent more than a year now conditioning himself to believe this wasn't possible, after all. S has spent just as much time thinking the same in some way, which J thinks explains why he sounds less than certain; he knows, he knows, S wouldn't offer him something like this half-hearted, that he'd do it to make J feel better, knowing it would make him feel worse if it hurt S in any way. These things rattle around in his head, fluffing their feathers, not settling long enough to become still or whole, as his throat goes tight, tears welling up inexorably.
"Are you sure?" he asks anyway, quiet only because it's hard to get his words out at all with his throat and heart aching. He feels like he's shaking. He wants it too much. Maybe that's stupid, some part of him trying desperately to recapture parts of a past he's done his best to let go of, but he can't help himself. Those parts, at least, were worth recapturing. If nothing else, he was so, so certain that he couldn't have that because he'd fucked up in a way that was impossible to fix. Even if S only played for him again once, maybe it would put that terrible voice to rest, or at least this particular line of its rhetorical weaponry. He just wants to know it's real and okay. "I do want that."
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He wants to tell S that it's okay, that he doesn't need to apologize. All that matters right now is that they understand each other, that they've made themselves clear. S knows what he means now, why he worried, that not wanting this kind of decision made for him isn't the same thing as him not wanting S to make choices ever. It bothered him when he was younger because, as always, he was caught up in his own perception of things, projecting his fears onto S's behavior. He understands better now. Even if part of him still fears now that he'll become somehow too much, in his heart, he knows S won't let it come to that, not ever.
He wants to tell him that, to say it's alright and he understands, but there's a pause in the air, the sense of something more to come, and he waits. And in spite of this whole debacle, the way S was playing when he walked in and the mess he's made of it all and the things he's managed to say in words either blurted out or broken off, he doesn't quite expect it. He's spent more than a year now conditioning himself to believe this wasn't possible, after all. S has spent just as much time thinking the same in some way, which J thinks explains why he sounds less than certain; he knows, he knows, S wouldn't offer him something like this half-hearted, that he'd do it to make J feel better, knowing it would make him feel worse if it hurt S in any way. These things rattle around in his head, fluffing their feathers, not settling long enough to become still or whole, as his throat goes tight, tears welling up inexorably.
"Are you sure?" he asks anyway, quiet only because it's hard to get his words out at all with his throat and heart aching. He feels like he's shaking. He wants it too much. Maybe that's stupid, some part of him trying desperately to recapture parts of a past he's done his best to let go of, but he can't help himself. Those parts, at least, were worth recapturing. If nothing else, he was so, so certain that he couldn't have that because he'd fucked up in a way that was impossible to fix. Even if S only played for him again once, maybe it would put that terrible voice to rest, or at least this particular line of its rhetorical weaponry. He just wants to know it's real and okay. "I do want that."