"No," J says, soft but firm. He'd shake his head, but he doesn't want to make S think he's shaking him away, his hand curling tight in S's. "It wasn't. None of that was right, Sihyun-ah." It hurts to think about, and J hates that, in some way, he was right. It's the shadow of what was that's made this so difficult, and he's all too aware still of the horrible things he said — not all of them, no, because he's sure he said things when he was upset that he's forgotten, but more often things stick, echoing in his head down the years, long after they've been forgiven. It just never should have fallen to S to think he could fix all this or that he should have had to choose differently to mend what's broken in J.
Besides, he thinks, a sudden clarity piercing the ache, it wouldn't have helped at all. "I would have hated that, too, I think," he says. His throat hurts a little, and he feels like his blood is pulsing in his ears, painfully alive at the pulse points in his wrists. Revisiting any of that time is horrible. That he does so all the time doesn't change that. "You don't understand. It wouldn't have been either of ours then. I was scared. Losing something that... made me me. And you still had it, and I didn't know who I was anymore... If you'd stopped, if you'd given it up... I would have felt guilty, but also I — it would have been a choice for you. I didn't feel like I had that. It was just... gone. Everything — I was so fucked up, darling. Nothing would have made me happy. Not that."
Maybe if he'd been able to make himself talk sooner. Maybe if he'd told S the truth, found a way to explain how it felt like he was watching himself disappear, watching himself get replaced by someone who looked and sounded very much like himself, but animated by all his worst tendencies. Maybe if he'd been able to let S see him properly, to know that he was terrified and in pain, maybe then they could have done something. But he didn't know how. Even now, after over a year of pushing and trying and working and talking, some things are intensely difficult. He's had so long to think about all this, and it still feels like there are things he doesn't understand. And what he does understand, and what he can say, he says like this, by turns barreling forward and haltingly, trembling slightly and holding S's hand perhaps a little too tight. It's there. He puts it away as best he can and he lives where and when he is now, but that past is always there and he is always afraid that it will be here again, too, just as he is, that a day will come when, once again, he watches himself fade away. He felt it earlier this year and he survived it, but even that wasn't as bad as it's been before. Maybe that's because, this time, S pulled the words out of him. Maybe it's because he's been able to say things like this, to prepare S a little better to help him through. Or maybe that was a warning shot, a shadow version, letting him off light, but only for now. As awful as all of this is to say, as frightening as it is to say aloud, yet again, that he doesn't believe they could have changed what happened then, it needs to be said. Everything he thinks and learns about that time should be said, held up to the light, examined for clues so that next time, it can be changed. But that doesn't keep him from shaking, remembering all that fury and despair.
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Besides, he thinks, a sudden clarity piercing the ache, it wouldn't have helped at all. "I would have hated that, too, I think," he says. His throat hurts a little, and he feels like his blood is pulsing in his ears, painfully alive at the pulse points in his wrists. Revisiting any of that time is horrible. That he does so all the time doesn't change that. "You don't understand. It wouldn't have been either of ours then. I was scared. Losing something that... made me me. And you still had it, and I didn't know who I was anymore... If you'd stopped, if you'd given it up... I would have felt guilty, but also I — it would have been a choice for you. I didn't feel like I had that. It was just... gone. Everything — I was so fucked up, darling. Nothing would have made me happy. Not that."
Maybe if he'd been able to make himself talk sooner. Maybe if he'd told S the truth, found a way to explain how it felt like he was watching himself disappear, watching himself get replaced by someone who looked and sounded very much like himself, but animated by all his worst tendencies. Maybe if he'd been able to let S see him properly, to know that he was terrified and in pain, maybe then they could have done something. But he didn't know how. Even now, after over a year of pushing and trying and working and talking, some things are intensely difficult. He's had so long to think about all this, and it still feels like there are things he doesn't understand. And what he does understand, and what he can say, he says like this, by turns barreling forward and haltingly, trembling slightly and holding S's hand perhaps a little too tight. It's there. He puts it away as best he can and he lives where and when he is now, but that past is always there and he is always afraid that it will be here again, too, just as he is, that a day will come when, once again, he watches himself fade away. He felt it earlier this year and he survived it, but even that wasn't as bad as it's been before. Maybe that's because, this time, S pulled the words out of him. Maybe it's because he's been able to say things like this, to prepare S a little better to help him through. Or maybe that was a warning shot, a shadow version, letting him off light, but only for now. As awful as all of this is to say, as frightening as it is to say aloud, yet again, that he doesn't believe they could have changed what happened then, it needs to be said. Everything he thinks and learns about that time should be said, held up to the light, examined for clues so that next time, it can be changed. But that doesn't keep him from shaking, remembering all that fury and despair.