A faint edge of panic hums along J's skin, but he waits, he makes himself wait, quiet, watching, for S to say more than fuck. He wants to take it all back, afraid and aching and so painfully guilty, scared he's made S feel the same way. He doesn't. It's hard work. He wouldn't have called it that before, didn't understand how difficult it could be to wait and be patient and trust; he had his anxieties as an adolescent but it was never so bad. He rarely had to worry what S would think of him. Even when he clumsily, thoughtlessly came out, it was because of how easy things were between them and how safe he felt. He didn't get it then, that it required, on some level, that he trusted himself too. Knowing who he was, what he wanted, having that certainty of self made awkward pauses and concerns easier to bear. Though he's doing better here than he did for a long time before this, he still spends far too much time lost in doubt and self-recrimination.
So much that he doesn't expect what S says, his brow furrowing in turn, confused. "Maybe," he allows, because maybe it's true that S isn't putting it right. He doesn't quite understand what he's hearing, after all. "I... you're not in my way. Or showing off. I'm in your way." He's been vaguely aware, after all, that S plays at work sometimes, but it's just been an idea. S hardly ever mentions it. He keeps it to himself and stops when J catches him. If anyone's holding anybody back, it's J. Of course it's something S keeps private. How can J expect S to trust him in this setting when J's still struggling to trust himself? How can S play in front of him when, last time, J nearly killed him? How can it possibly be unfair of S to do so? "I — the reasons I — I'm slow, I'm careful — that's my fault too, not yours."
His pulse throbs in his throat, his gaze dropping again. It won't do much to hide the tears, but he's tired and sad and, even with his vision blurry, he can't quite look at S when the shame sits so heavy in his chest. He's barely able to trust himself on any but the best of days. That's no one's fault but his own.
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So much that he doesn't expect what S says, his brow furrowing in turn, confused. "Maybe," he allows, because maybe it's true that S isn't putting it right. He doesn't quite understand what he's hearing, after all. "I... you're not in my way. Or showing off. I'm in your way." He's been vaguely aware, after all, that S plays at work sometimes, but it's just been an idea. S hardly ever mentions it. He keeps it to himself and stops when J catches him. If anyone's holding anybody back, it's J. Of course it's something S keeps private. How can J expect S to trust him in this setting when J's still struggling to trust himself? How can S play in front of him when, last time, J nearly killed him? How can it possibly be unfair of S to do so? "I — the reasons I — I'm slow, I'm careful — that's my fault too, not yours."
His pulse throbs in his throat, his gaze dropping again. It won't do much to hide the tears, but he's tired and sad and, even with his vision blurry, he can't quite look at S when the shame sits so heavy in his chest. He's barely able to trust himself on any but the best of days. That's no one's fault but his own.