It doesn't fix things, J knows that. Even so, the feel of S's hand wrapped briefly around his and the way his nose wrinkles as he starts to text are enough to make J feel a little better, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, fondness softening the jagged edges of his hurt. They figure things out, he tells himself. They get through things. He knows that there's not really anything they can do to change how things are now, and that that's going to hurt probably forever, but they can get through it. He just has to breathe.

That, at least, feels somewhat easier now. As daunting as the idea of talking is, it'll be better. J tells himself so again and again, reminds himself quietly of how many times talking has helped. It's not a cure and it doesn't undo the damage he's done, but it helps. Every time he does it, S knows him better still, and he's reminded all over again how loved and wanted he is. This won't be the time that breaks them. It's better, no matter how hard, than leaving S in the dark, letting this eat at them both all on their own.

It's just such a difficult topic. It's always going to be, and it feels like it shouldn't have to be, that J's being greedy or cruel having such strong feelings about another mess he made. Talking about it is unnerving even before S mentions that's what they'll do, and then all J can do is wait, gaze darting nervously behind S toward the back, waiting to see if someone will emerge and if he'll have to make himself move from this spot.