hismelody | (no subject)

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July gives way to August, and with it, though the muggy weather is no less oppressive, S finds his mood lightening a little. It's strange, probably, associating summer with death. It also can't be helped. He's not half as far gone now as he was in those first couple of years, but the loss of his parents is never going to be an easy one to bear, and the days and weeks around the anniversary of their deaths are always going to hurt. Likewise strange is how grief begets grief. For that, he always feels guilty. J is here, after all, alive and well. They've had nearly a year and a half together now that they weren't supposed to have gotten, and S really is, he thinks, the happiest he's ever been. But when that loss rears its head, even happiness hurts. He never got to come out to his parents, never told them how he felt about J. They never got to see him as he is now. They weren't there when he lost the love of his life, a storm he weathered entirely on his own, and something he'll always carry with him. At times like this, it's just a little closer to the surface than usual.

He tries not to let it emerge completely, holding it at bay as best he can. It's a hard time of year, that's all, and at least J knows that already. It makes him a little quieter than usual, and a little more inclined to bring up his parents, something he doesn't typically do all that often, especially knowing that can be a difficult subject for J in different ways. Like a dark cloud slowly but inexorably passing in front of the sun, though, it starts to ease — not like the flip of a switch, exactly, but a more gradual, less noticeable change, some of it lingering still, some of it substantially better. He's still a bit distracted, but he also has a chance to start catching up on the things he didn't feel up to a couple of weeks ago. It's something.

It lets him do more with J, too. Not that he was distant before, but they're both introverted by nature, and with the weight of all that grief, he's more inclined to want to stay in with the one person who understands it, who saw him through it back then. He's tried before, more than once, to try to tell J just how grateful he is for that, how much it meant and still means to him, but there are never the words. All he can really do is attempt to make it up to him in any small ways he can, smiling faintly as J suggests plans, only for him to realize that's the one day he'll be otherwise occupied. "Ah, maybe the day after?" he offers instead, just distracted enough that he doesn't really register what he's saying until the words are out of his mouth. "I have a doctor's appointment that day."

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It's not like it's pressing that they go out on that particular day, of course. J is just throwing out ideas for things they can do, though he's also perfectly happy just to stay home in their air-conditioned apartment. It's just that, when he's feeling better and S seems to be feeling somewhat better, it also seems like a good time to go out and do something that gets them outside but doesn't ask much of them, like going to the movies. Still, it's easy enough to pick a different day.

It's S's reason that pulls J up short, his brow furrowing in faint concern. S hasn't mentioned an appointment or even needing one. For that matter, though J has had little colds now and then since arriving, he hasn't gone either. He's in the habit of toughing things out unless they're especially bad. Doctors cost money, after all. "Doctor?" he echoes. "Everything okay?" If it weren't, he knows S would probably have told him before now, so it's likely not a big deal, but now he's worried he missed something important.

It takes only a few moments after he's spoken for S to realize that he very much shouldn't have. There's a reason why he hasn't brought it up before, after all. While they've more than once fallen into conversations about the need to talk to each other and how much difference it makes, he doesn't see this the same way at all. Nothing is wrong. This isn't him deciding something for both of them — at least, he doesn't think it is — but just not mentioning something that doesn't need to involve J. However he may have been wounded in the first place, the recovery part has been all him, and it's not like this is a complication or something seeming off. It's just a routine appointment, one that wouldn't be worth worrying J.

After all, as a rule, he doesn't talk about it, the scars on his chest, the damage he sustained, the recovery from it. He remembers too well, painfully well, how J reacted to the sight of them the day he got here. Since then, he thinks he can probably count on one hand the number of times it's come up. J said something in those first few days, as he recalls, about needing to be able to face them at some point, sooner rather than later, but that soon has never arrived. As much as it may hurt, without explicit permission, he isn't going to make J face the lasting marks from that last night they saw each other back in Seoul. It may not always be very convenient, wearing a shirt during sex or when they shower together, changing in the bathroom or carefully facing the wall, trying not to draw attention to it all the while, but it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative. If it's part of keeping J safe, then he doesn't mind it at all.

And this, really, is just a variation on the same sort of thing. There's no reason to bring it up, to force J to think about it. Except now he already has brought it up, and the last thing he wants is to make J worry needlessly, his stomach twisting a little as he shakes his head. "Everything's fine," he says, casual but earnest. "It's just a routine thing. A check-up."

J can't help or hide the uncertainty in his expression, biting his lip as he considers that. He doesn't want to doubt S, doesn't think he's lying exactly, but it doesn't feel right either. Check-ups are reasonable, he knows, and probably should be routine, even if they never really have been for him. He just can't see, then, why S wouldn't have mentioned it already or what would have precipitated his making an appointment if it's nothing out of the ordinary.

"How routine can it be?" he asks, trying to sound more wry than confused, not sure he succeeds. "This is the first I've heard of it." S seems fine, though, both in terms of his health and what he's saying. There's something there that J couldn't put into words that makes him feel it's not quite as simple as S says, but no real reason for him to think it's anything serious either. He just also can't understand why S wouldn't mention it. It's not like they have to tell each other every little thing all the time, but this seems like something they'd usually bring up.

He can't tell if he's being paranoid, and it leaves him uncomfortable, awkwardly shifting on the couch to stretch out his legs as if that make shake some of the strangeness off of him. Glancing over again, hesitant, he nods. "Everything's really fine?" It worries him that he might seem suspicious or distrustful, that he might be imagining problems that don't exist. If S insists things are fine, he tells himself, he'll accept it. He can't let his imagination run away with him and get him worked up over nothing, and S wouldn't lie to him, especially about something important.

Already S knows he's gotten this entirely wrong. He shouldn't have said anything, or if he was going to, he should have done so sooner, made it less out of nowhere, maybe feigned a cold or something. Except it would have been obviously untrue, and probably raised J's suspicions sooner, never mind the fact that S doesn't like lying to him. At least this way, he hasn't said anything dishonest. He might be attempting to talk around the real reason for this appointment, but it's all still true. It is just a check-up, just a very specific one. It is a routine thing, something he was told he should do rather than that he felt he needed, and he is fine.

He just has a feeling that, if he tells J what the reason behind it is, he won't see it that way. Hazy as a lot of his memories of that first day are, especially those few minutes he spent in an absolute panic, he vaguely recalls a similar exchange — him trying to say he was alright, J insisting otherwise. S can't stand the thought of going down that road again, or even anywhere close to it. He is fine, and the whole point of this appointment is really to confirm that. If there were anything wrong, if he even suspected there might be, this would be a very different conversation, something he would have prepared J for ahead of time.

Now, he isn't sure what to do about his slip of the tongue. He can't take it back, and he doesn't want to make J worry more instead of less. When J knows him so well, being too evasive would probably be obvious, and make things seem worse than they actually are. While he nods in agreement, not wanting to hesitate on that front, expression gently earnest as he looks over at J, he takes a moment to weigh his words before he gives a verbal answer, trying to find the tidiest middle ground. "Everything's really fine," he confirms, reaching over to rest his hand on J's, hoping the gesture will be reassuring. "I promise. It's... I had a surgery, a few months before I got here. And it went well, there hasn't been anything wrong since, I'm just supposed to check in every so often. I only didn't say anything before because it really is just routine."

J turns his hand under S's, instinctively seeking to link their fingers, looking for reassurance. He feels foolish for needing it, but he does. It's difficult sometimes. He knows, before, he didn't show S very much trust at all, and it's not something he wants to risk repeating. He does trust S, more than he trusts anyone or ever has, really. That doesn't mean S always tells him everything, and he's still learning to find the space between trusting blindly and trusting nothing. The thing is, it's not like S lies to him. He never has, not in any real way, not about anything that mattered. But he does leave things out.

Even now, J feels like he's missing something, something thudding in his chest like he missed a step in the stairwell, abrupt and unsteady. There aren't more or less steps than there were before; he just lost track of one. His first moment of concern is the idea that S had surgery and didn't mention it. It would be just like S to leave something like that out, not wanting to worry J, but before he can say anything, his mind catches up, understanding dragging along his skin, jagged-edged.

He opens his mouth and closes it again, his grasp on S's hand briefly tightening. Figuring out what to say, what to ask, how to put it when he's still trying to wrap his head around all of this, is hard. He's not even certain what he's feeling. "You go to the doctor routinely," he says slowly, a little hurt creeping into his voice, "and it's not something I need to know?"

It's his fault. He knows it is. He highly doubts there was some other surgery he doesn't know about, so it can only be the aftermath of what he did that S means. It's not an easy topic; it never has been and likely never will be, so it's his own fault if S doesn't feel comfortable talking to him about it. But it's S's fault too, making assumptions, making decisions, keeping J from being able to support him. "That's not fair," he says. He's aware he's turning sulky, but he can't see how he's supposed to shrug this off and go back to talking about distracting little nothings. "Even if it's fine, it's — that's not fair of you."

For just a moment, S has to fight off the impulse to be defensive, words on the tip of his tongue that he bites back. It isn't as if he can decidedly say that J is wrong, after all. Maybe it isn't fair. But at least in that one brief instant, he thinks that it's not fair either that his boyfriend can't stand the sight of him, that he's had to be so fucking careful this past year and a half with his own body, knowing that the alternative could be disastrous. Saying it would be even worse, though, nothing he has any desire ever to throw in J's face. He gets it, after all. Even if there's a persistent sting to it — staying half-clothed during sex, in the shower, changing in another room or facing away from each other, more modest even than he ever was when they first lived together, before they confessed their feelings — it's a very small price to pay for what he's gotten in return, and it's worth it. At most, it's a minor inconvenience.

It was before it came up like this, though, entirely by accident. Of course, that's probably the only way it ever would have. Talking about it may not be the same as forcing J to look at the physical reminders of what happened that night, but it likewise wouldn't seem fair to talk about it and make him bear that burden. Not being able to talk about the weeks and months that were without a doubt the hardest in S's life isn't all that much fairer, but that, too, has simply seemed like the better of two bad options.

When J looks and sounds like this, though, S doesn't know if he could explain it well. He gets it, anyway, how this might strike a nerve, might hew too close to what J hated so much before. Since they've been back together, he's tried hard to temper the impulse to stay in control of what he can, at least so it won't start to come across as him controlling J. With this, it wasn't even so much a conscious decision, just the only thing he felt like he could do. Even now, he feels certain that it wouldn't have gone over very well if he'd brought it up sooner. With a subject as fraught as this, there's just no way to win.

"It's not like it's often," he says, a quiet protest, even as his hand clasps J's in turn. "Just once, maybe twice a year." That won't change anything right now and he knows it. Falling silent for a moment, he looks down at his lap, mouth settling into a frown. Softer now, he adds, "I don't know what you would have wanted me to say."

"The truth?" J suggests. The hand not in S's presses against his stomach, curled tight, as if tensing up can somehow hold him together. He can't look up, his shoulders set, trying to keep himself from blurting out more or worse, or from pulling away entirely. Part of him wants to pace, to work out some of the anxious energy vibrating through him, jangling his nerves like too-tight strings.

He was fine. He was quietly content, his only concern for S that he's still a bit quiet himself, but that's okay. J gets that, after all. However S handles his grief as it ebbs and flows, J is there for that. Now he can feel himself getting wound up, worse the more he tries to hold it in. But he doesn't want to blow up at S and get swept away in anger because it hurts to look at his other feelings.

"I understand," he says. That's the part that hurts most, probably, not just that S can't trust him to hear these things, but that he gets why that's so. "But I —" He grits his teeth, eyes closing tight. What good is there in protesting? What is he supposed to say? He's too fragile. Too weak, too small, too useless. He'd thought he was doing better, that he was supportive. They both pull their weight in different ways, as best as J can, and he tries. They're supposed to be partners, but this is how it is. He'll never be able to be there the way he should be. S didn't even let him try, but maybe it's because he knows J can't do it, that he'd only end up like this, too upset to find his words.

S is the one carrying this alone. And here's J, selfish as always, upset about the role he plays or doesn't get to play.

His head growing light, he forces himself to stop, holding his breath for a second so he'll stop breathing too fast and get some air in his lungs. Tugging his hand away from S, he presses it to his chest instead, below his throat, trying to steady himself. This is useless. This is why S doesn't tell him these things. Huffing out a heavy breath, he sniffs, eyes screwing tight shut in frustration, trying to hold back the urge to cry. It won't help. Even so, he can't help the question that pulls out of him, quietly despairing. "Am I still that weak?"

Too shaken to hold it back, S flinches like he's been struck when J pulls his hand away, wrapping his arms around himself instead, not quite able to look at J. He doesn't know how this happened. He made one stupid, offhand, mindless comment, and now everything feels thrown off, and he has no idea what to do about it. Really, it doesn't seem fair, and not in the way J meant a moment ago. He could have told the truth about it upfront, but it would have been needlessly upsetting, bringing up the worst part of their past for an insignificant reason. Not telling J, though, has brought them here. It's horrible no matter what, and it's not like he can do anything about what happened to him and the lasting effects of it. If he could take it back, erase the hideous scars on his chest, not need to see doctors because of the damage done, he would. He'd go back to that night and leave when J told him to, not stubbornly standing his ground, always saying the wrong thing, always making J upset.

They've really been doing better, this past year and a half. S has to believe that. Still, though, time and again, he fucks it up, and it's worst when it's like this, when it feels so tied to the very fact of his being. Moments like this, irrational though he knows it is, a part of him can't help but wonder if it's unforgivably selfish, wanting to be with J when he knows he'll always be a reminder of the worst things J did.

What J says hurts, too, so far from the truth that it leaves him speechless for a moment, knowing he's gotten this even more wrong than usual, than he would have expected. "It's not like that," he finally protests, slight defensiveness under the wounded sound of his voice. Maybe his not telling J wasn't fair, but neither is this, not from his standpoint. "And you know I've never thought you're weak, so don't — don't put words in my mouth." He feels like he's about to be sick, his chest tight, his breathing shallow. None of this is right, no matter what he does, and there's no way to fix it. Right now, faced with this, it's hard not to feel like there never is.

J doesn't know if S has never thought it, but he's never said it. It's only ever been J saying it, afraid for so long that S was thinking it, too, even when it doesn't make sense. His breath shaky, he gives up his useless attempts to keep from crying, though he tries to keep quiet all the same. He feels stupid for having said it, but it's too late to take it back, and he feels it anyway, foolish and weak and painfully young. He doesn't know how to handle these things. He doesn't think anyone is supposed to know how to, but they're here, and he's had time; he should have figured it out at some point.

Instead he doesn't know what to say or do, his throat tight, guilt mixing with indignation. Even now, he knows they're both in the wrong this time, too sensible to his own faults to miss that. What he doesn't know is how to correct it. "Sorry," he whispers after a moment, lips pressed firmly together after, as if that might keep his voice steady when he speaks again. How is he supposed to feel anything but useless, though, when S keeps things like this from him? What is he supposed to make of that? Nails pressing into his chest, he slumps forward against his knees, words muffled against his arms. "You don't think it, but I do. And — and what am I supposed to think?" This effort proves to be in vain, too, his voice pitching up pathetically, too wounded to conceal it. He tenses at the sound of it, part of him aching to move, to pace, restless and unnerved. He can't though, not quite able to make himself move, breath coming too shallow, head too light.

Staying curled into himself, he shakes his head. Conjecture has never worked in his favor, and he spends too much time imagining things that aren't true. He just can't really imagine a reason why S would hide something from him that wouldn't hurt. Even the best intentions J can imagine make him ache, utterly miserable. Ultimately, the fault is his own. No matter how hard they try or how much they grow and improve, that can't be changed. He'd started to think, though, that S didn't think about that all the time or even very often, not like J does. Before, he'd been sure that night was the reason S wouldn't play in front of him, and he'd been wrong about that. He can't see how the same could be true now.

"If not that," he asks, "then why?" They're supposed to support each other. They want to. How can he, though, if S won't let him?

It's a simple question, the second one, but there's no simple answer. For S, being with J has always been the easiest thing in the world, making sense even when all the circumstances around them said it shouldn't. He just knew; some part of him, he thinks, felt it instinctively even before he had a conscious awareness of it. This one subject, though, will probably never be simple or easy. Letting it fade into the background has come far more naturally than he once would have expected, but every time it comes up, it's like they wind up back here, everything fraught and tense all over again, an unnatural distance between them. That's why, really, he never said anything. There genuinely seemed to be no need to bring it up over something so minor. All he'd have been doing is reminding J — informing him, if anything, since they've never talked about the extent of it or his recovery in any kind of detail — of the damage done that night. Had it been something more consequential, had there been any complications or concerns, it would be different. That, he wouldn't have kept to himself. Like he tried to say at first, though, this is just routine, a simple fact of his life now, something he barely needs to think twice about anymore.

He's hurt J anyway, though, damned if he brings it up and damned if he doesn't, and this, too, feels unfair — that it's somehow on him to protect J from anything pertaining to it, and on him when that backfires. He nearly died, thought he did die, and then he woke up in a hospital alone, his best friend dead, no one there to help him get on his feet again, both literally and metaphorically. He had months of that, time to at least start coming to terms with the simple fact of that being his life. Coming here changed everything, of course, but even just physically speaking, he's infinitely better than he was. With that being the case, of course he didn't think all that much about it, and when he did think about it, it just seemed better, safer, not to risk bringing it up. It's not at all because he thinks J is weak. If anything, it's because he is, too haunted by that first afternoon here, sitting on this same couch in positions not dissimilar to the ones they're in now, thinking that he was going to lose J all over again.

"It really didn't seem like a big deal," he mumbles, staring down at his lap, trying to ignore the uncomfortably familiar prickling in his eyes. "If it was, if there were anything wrong, I would have said something." It feels hollow, not good enough, nothing J will accept, even if it is the truth. That whispered apology does little to soothe the sting of J pulling away from him. "It didn't feel worth bringing all of that up over nothing."

J holds his breath, willing himself to keep quiet, to force his breathing to even out. That first flash of anger was awful, but it was more comfortable than this muffled ache in his chest, pressing tight against his ribs. He's so stupid. This, this, is why S didn't say anything. Because he knew J would fall apart.

Except, he thinks, that's not true. Not anymore. He would have at the start, that's undeniable. As horrible as it is, though, to know what he did, and as much as he knows he's unlikely ever to forgive himself for it, he's also lived with it far, far longer than he'd imagined he could — long enough to see for himself that, however terrible a thing he did, S is still alive and well and loving him. It hurts to think about and likely always will, but he's more inured to the fact of it than he once was. Maybe bringing it up early on would have been a mistake, but he doubts S went to the doctor so soon after arriving. This would have happened later, and there was a second time, and now this third. He assumes it is, at least, based on how long they've been here. Regardless of that, he realizes, it's not the injuries he caused that have him so upset now. It's being kept out of things, sheltered, as if he's not aware he caused S harm.

And now he's just making things worse, likely making S wish he'd done a better job of hiding this. That makes him uncomfortable, too, the idea that S might try to improve his ability to conceal things from J, and then uncomfortable with himself for worrying about it, afraid he's straying too close to who he was before. He's fucked up, responding so intensely; he should have made himself think and wait before he said anything, though maybe it wouldn't have helped. The more he thinks, after all, the worse all of this feels.

Part of him wants just to say okay, let it go, let S keep his secrets. He's tired and he's making an idiot of himself and that's not likely to convince S he was wrong. Just enough of him is aware, though, that curling up inside himself and shutting down isn't helpful either. "It's not nothing," he says, hoarse and still muffled. "I'd tell you if I went to the doctor. Just because you're fine doesn't mean you should have to do it on your own. And what if you weren't fine?" His voice wavers and he lifts his head a little, enough to get a clearer breath of air. "What if something happened and I didn't know — what to do, anything? I didn't even get a chance." Groaning, he presses the heel of the hand that was previously at his stomach against his eye instead. Nothing feels right. He doesn't know how to make it feel right. He doesn't know anymore if what he's saying is reasonable, his next question entirely genuine. "Is that selfish of me? If it's better for you if I don't know, I — I guess don't —" He can't get it out, breath catching on a lump, tears rising again. It would be as good as telling S to keep him in the dark, and maybe he is selfish, but he can't make himself do that. He feels useless enough without saying he is.

S doesn't know how they got here. It's an utterly unhelpful thing to think, but it's true, too, the shift in mood making him feel like he has whiplash of some kind. They were just having a perfectly nice conversation, making a plan to do something that he very much would like to do, and then he had to go and say what he said the way that he said it. That's the problem, really, and also what's so confusing. He didn't intend to say it, but he still said it. He could just as easily have brought it up now intentionally, and everything else would still be exactly the same. Somehow, though it happens far more rarely now than it used to, they keep winding up here, and he doesn't know what the fuck to do about it, how he always gets things so wrong. There's no one in the world, this or any other, that he loves a fraction as much as J, that he's as willing to talk to, that he hates upsetting this much. Somehow he always does.

And it's probably a stupid thing, to still be so stung by J's pulling his hand away when there's so much more that's wrong, but he does all the same. Maybe it's just easier, he reasons, to fixate on the smallest part of this, the one that doesn't make his head spin. Watching the way J looks now, hunched over and in tears, S wants nothing more than to pull him close and comfort him, except that he's somehow the reason J needs comforting, and he can't bear the thought of J pulling away from him again. It's more than he could take right now, his breathing unsteady as he brings his feet up onto the couch cushion, arms wrapping around his bent legs. If he could go back in time two fucking minutes, he would. He gets the sense, though, that in some way or another, it wouldn't make all that much difference.

"Of course it's not better for me," he replies, a wounded protest, and the one thing he can say for sure right now. It may be simpler to keep things like that to himself, but he's never liked withholding anything from J, going all the way back to when they were kids and he was too scared to come out to his best friend. Here, he's always hated that this subject feels like it has to be off-limits, something he still has to bear alone, but it does. "I — I didn't think you'd want to hear about any of that."

He thought, too, still does, that it would only make it worse for J to have to consider those details. A small, petty part of S is half-tempted to bring them up now, to ask if J really wants to hear about the physical damage he sustained beyond the basic overview of being stabbed, but he doesn't have it in him to be that cold. He's too upset for that, trying and failing to fight off tears, wanting nothing more than to make this right. "I'm sorry."

It takes effort to move, to make himself lift his hand even enough to wipe his eyes. Even before he manages it, though, he can see the way S has moved, how he's folded in on himself, too, and he feels horrible for it. If he could just control his emotions, if he could respond reasonably instead of getting worked up at the first sign of things not going the way he'd like, then they wouldn't be like this. He'd be upset regardless, he's sure, but they could have just had a fucking conversation if he weren't such a child.

So it's a relief to, for just a moment, feel a flash of exasperation amid the hurt. It's not anger or despair, just something tired and a little sad, and he can handle that. That S apologizes — well, it makes him feel guilty, too, but it tempers the lingering frustration just a bit. He understands the urge to double down in an argument, but he doesn't think he's the only one in the wrong here. Having S seem to understand sincerely that, if nothing else, he hasn't gotten this right helps. Fingers stretching, shoulders pressing back, he tries to loosen his limbs a bit, though it doesn't do much. As badly as he wants to reach back over to S — actually, what he wants is to tumble over and lean against him, not have to hold himself up at all — he can't make himself unfurl quite that much.

"And you want to hear," he says, hoarse from crying but pushing himself to speak up a bit rather than hiding his face in his arms, "all the things I have to say? The nightmares and the memories and everything I did? Sihyun-ah..." He sighs, breath hitching. It's hard to make himself speak clearly — or at all — or to breathe properly. He can only manage maybe one of those at a time right now. He scraps his thumbnail over his collarbone, the small sharpness of it helping to steady him. "I don't have to like things to... to want to be here. I know what I did either way." No amount of silence can ever change that. Not talking about it doesn't mean it didn't happen. When J still can't entirely forgive himself, he's hardly about to forget. S talks well about wanting to know things, about wanting J to talk, and J would yell at him for not wanting to give him the same courtesy if he had the energy to do so and if he weren't so sad.

S hates this, everything about it. The distance between them that shouldn't be there, the way J looks and sounds from crying, the sense both that this is all his fault because he fucks everything up and that there's no reason for it to be such a big deal, the fact that they once again both seem to be just missing something from the other — it makes him miserable, a sharp, steady ache in the middle of his chest, and that alone just makes everything seem worse. A few minutes ago, they were fine. He still doesn't really understand it, what changed, how they got here. All of it leaves him feeling tense and restless, in the sort of way where he knows he could too easily snap, though at least he has the sense not to. It's just that, for him, it seems painfully obvious why he wouldn't have said anything.

It isn't that he would want to hold back telling J anything important, even if it might be upsetting. J has been there through nearly everything, all but that last, worst time in the life he had before he got here. When his parents died — when he thought he might have to move hours away, when his grades went so downhill he wasn't sure he would be able to get into any decent school — J is the person he turned to with all of it, the only one he would go to with any of it. That first night in their studio, as it finally sunk in that he would never get to go back to his childhood home again, J held him while he cried himself to sleep, before they knew what they would become to each other. It's just always been J, in every way. That is, perhaps, albeit counterintuitively, what's held him back here. Of course he doesn't want to talk about, to make clear the extent of the damage of, what might set J on a course toward not wanting to be here anymore.

So much of the day J arrived is a blur. Those few horrible moments, though, S remembers with a sickening clarity. He'd been so terrified that he might and so certain that he would lose J again, and something in him both broke and grew resolved not to let that come up again. Of course J knows what he did, but he shouldn't have to be confronted with the lingering effects of it. If that means not talking about routine doctor's appointments, or never taking his shirt off in front of his boyfriend, then S will do it without question. Now, he just doesn't know what to do, when every choice feels like the wrong one, equally likely to lead to some kind of disaster.

"I know you're here," he says, frustrated and sad and pleading, drawing further in on himself. This, too, is counterintuitive. J is saying that he's here, and S is agreeing, and yet he feels suddenly so achingly, frighteningly alone, his breathing shaky as he tries both to maintain his composure and figure out what to say to explain himself, to fix this, to stop everything from spinning so far out of control. "That's — I just want to keep it that way."

J worries at his lower lip, torn, not yet processing what S is saying. Instead he weighs his options — the desire to move closer, to wrap himself around S when he can see his boyfriend getting smaller, sadder, against the certainty that if he does so he'll give in. He doesn't want to think of it like that, like this is a battle to be won. He's tried hard not to let himself be that person anymore, the one who gets in useless fights and refuses to back down. There are times when being that stubborn is wrong, even when he's right. But this matters too much for him just to let it go. Maybe he won't convince S to open up to him about this, but he doesn't want to pretend he's okay with this either.

It's not like they have to go into detail. He can understand S not wanting to discuss that, not least with J being the reason he had to get surgery. He just doesn't see how S can't understand how it feels to be left in the dark, not given any opportunity to help him, when J knows he made S feel the same fucking way for so long.

"I'm not going anywhere," he protests. Nails digging into his palm, he forces himself to breathe deep, jaw clenched tight as if it might help balance him out. It's hard to make himself move. As horrible as he feels, it seems safer, too, to some voiceless part of his mind, if he stays curled up and tucked close in on himself. But S is practically shrinking and J has enough sense left in his head to know that he very much doesn't seem like he's here. There's not that much space between them now, but it's too much even so. Sucking in another sharp breath through gritted teeth, he maneuvers himself sideways to better face S. He tucks his legs up under him, pulls himself inward even as he leans closer. He wants to be close, even if he can't yet reach out, one hand curling tight in his pants, trembling from the harshness of his grasp and the rising nervousness dancing through him. The other he keeps at his chest, pressed hard to try and calm his frantic heart. It's worth the effort. He wants S to see him. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving again. I love you, Sihyun-ah... Please... I'm sorry. It's why I'm upset. I want to support you like you do for me, and it just..."

Again he bites his lip, trying to fight back the urge to start crying again in earnest. "I worry that I can't," he says, "and now..." This, S keeping him out, it feels like proof of that. Even though he very much doubts that's how S thinks of it, he can't help his instinctive response to the idea of S bearing something like this alone. No matter how routine this may be, no matter how fine S might be — if anything, it's harder not to be permitted to be part of something so simple. It's his own fault, he knows that, and he knows how volatile he can be about that, but S could at least have asked him if he felt he could handle that or if it was better not to discuss it. They've talked so much about that now, the need to open up. There have been too many misunderstandings born of silence between them.

"Moving is hard," he adds after a moment, cheeks flushing further at that, embarrassed more by this than the tears. They've cried in front of each other far too much for that to be a real issue now, but it feels shameful not to be able to make his own body do what he wants of it.

S feels it more than he sees it, the way J moves closer but still leaves space between them, and he has to swallow back the tiny sound that he feels rise up in his throat. Somehow, that just makes it worse, makes him all the more aware of the distance between them that doesn't feel like his to close. He reached out before, took J's hand, and J pulled away. As small a thing as it might be in the grand scheme of their relationship and all the turmoil it has contained, he really doesn't think he could bear it right now if the same thing happened again. It's easier, feeling so terribly alone and adrift, to stay as small as he can, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, forehead resting against his knees. It doesn't make anything better, either, but for a long time, once J was gone, it was the closest he could get to being held, something to relieve just a tiny bit of the tension as he fell apart.

He doesn't want it to get that bad now, distantly has the thought that he doesn't have that right, when he can sort of understand at least some of what J is saying. It's still not the way he sees it, but however minor it might seem to him, he can't discredit the fact that it's apparently much bigger to J. Telling himself that, though — that he shouldn't be shifting the focus here when he's the one who upset J — doesn't stop the reaction that's already taken root in him. His vision blurs with tears, hot when they spill down his cheeks, and his breath hitches. At least on that one point, they can agree. Moving is hard. It's always harder when there's a space between them that he doesn't feel like he can close.

"You've been supporting me," he mumbles, his turn, this time, to speak without lifting his head. "It's not — not something I needed support for. Not here." The last is a quick addendum — half thoughtless, but fully in the interest of honesty. He needed support in the immediate aftermath, and he had none of it. There was no one left to give it, his world shattered in the accident that took his parents, burned down in the fire that killed J. "If I did, I would've told you."

No matter how difficult he knows it would be to bring it up, he means that. He wouldn't have kept it to himself if there were anything he were worried or upset about, if he was doing anything more than just checking in the way he was instructed to. All things considered, he's doing well in that regard. He's healed, even if his body will never be quite the same. That's the issue, really, or part of it, the thing that he thinks J is missing. S has long since stopped worrying about J walking out on him again. What he's afraid of is something bigger, more permanent. He lost J like that once. To go through that again, he thinks that would be the thing to make his heart give out, that would be more than he could take. Impossible as it is to be entirely certain, given everything that happened then, he vaguely recalls thinking the same thing that day, too, in that span of time when he couldn't ask J to stay alive but desperately needed him to.

Most of the time, he doesn't worry too much about that. There's always a little concern in the back of his head, but it's not an active fear, not most of the time. Just talking about this, though, being left with what feels like such an impossible choice, brings it back to the surface. He knows he has to say something, after all, to be more specific, to try to convey what's held him back from mentioning this beyond just finding it inconsequential. Trying to bring it up feels terrifying, like tempting fate somehow, speaking it into possibility, but despite how well they know each other, he thinks they tend to fuck it up when they try to guess what's going through the other's head. "But how — how am I supposed to talk about that," he asks, quieter and shakier, "when you can't even look at me?"

As tense and tired as he feels right now, J thinks this must be firm proof of just how much he really has grown and improved since he came here. Before he left — even in the weeks after he arrived, for that matter — he thinks he probably would have snapped out a reply by now, stupid and thoughtless and probably only partly meant. That S doesn't get that the support he gives is about more than just what is strictly needed is so frustratingly him that J wants to shake him for it, even as he wishes he could make himself stop holding onto his clothes so intensely and reach out for S instead.

But he doesn't lash out and he doesn't retort. He doesn't pull his hand from his heart or his nails from his palm either, but he's quiet, shaky as he listens, waits for S to say what he's going to say. Tucked in on himself as he is, his words are muffled, and J wonders distantly if he's always like this, too, if trying to hear him get his words out is difficult as much because he's talking into his fucking legs as anything else. It probably is. It's S's patience he has for a model here, his willingness to wait that J tries to emulate now.

S's words send a little jolt through him, indignation followed by a shiver of cold he doesn't fully understand. "I'm looking at you right now," he points out, not quite able to keep himself from responding this time. It's a very stupid impulse, he knows that. S is so frighteningly vulnerable right now, and J, all instinct, only barely manages to curb the bite of his words. Maybe S can't tell because he can't see J right now either. Except J knows that's not it, that it has to be more than that. S doesn't get this worked up just because they're in a huff with each other. As upset as J has been the last several minutes, it's not like it's odd for him to need time not to meet S's eyes, to focus on calming himself.

His calm isn't the important thing in this moment, he tells himself. He won't feel settled as long as S is unhappy like this, too. He started this, so he's got to put it right. Granted, the best he can make himself do just yet is lean against the back of the couch, pushing his hand from his leg forward, fingers twisting in the hem of S's pants instead of his own. "I'm looking at you," he says again, gentler now, though his voice is a little unsteady. "I look at you all the time. I can't stop looking at you, darling. Talk to me. Please."

Somehow, scattered though his thoughts may be, S isn't surprised in the slightest that J doesn't understand what he's said, what he means. They do this so fucking often — not nearly as much as they used to, or with as disastrous consequences, but both just missing each other in a way, getting close to but not quite grasping what's actually meant. In a purely physical sense, he knows, of course, that J looks at him. For that matter, there's a small measure of relief in feeling J's fingers curl around his pant leg, a little of that physical distance between them closed, even if S is too shaky now, trying too hard and still failing miserably to regain some composure, to reciprocate the gesture. What he would really like is to be held, or barring that, to falling apart not in front of his boyfriend, but he can't ask for the former and the latter isn't even an option. They're too deep in this now. He's too far gone, and he has to explain himself, even though the words stick in his throat, too terrifying to validate by speaking out loud.

Aside from those first days, and maybe once or twice since, they haven't talked about it. In all honesty, S kind of suspected that they never would, and he became alright with that because he had to be, eventually coming to prefer it. Knowing the effect that the sight of him had on J before, of course he wouldn't want J to have to see the scars left behind from that night, to make those awful few moments an even more present part of their relationship than they already are and will be. It stings a little, it always does, but it's better by far than the alternative, and an unbelievably low cost to pay to be together, all things considered. He has J, a miraculous impossibility in itself, and most of the time, everything between them is really, really good, the best it's ever been. Not being shirtless isn't even an inconvenience, really, when held up to that. It just is, and it's better, then, to leave it tucked aside, a nonissue, just a simple state of being.

Except now that he's said it, and failed at saying it, that's no longer the case. At least for right now, he has to try to put words to the thoughts in his head, an increasingly difficult task when he can barely think straight or catch his breath, a wave of panic he hasn't felt in a long time crashing over him.

"That's not what I mean," he says, quietly pleading again, even as he knows that there's nothing to be done but keep talking. "The day you got here, you got one — one glimpse of me, of —" Although it may not mean anything when he has his legs bent up to his chest, he unwraps one arm just enough to gesture over where his heart, and the scars there, would be. "And you were going to —"

Faltering as his words are, he doesn't know if this will be clear enough, either. All he can do is hope it is, when he's not sure he has it in him to say it more outright than that. "So how am I supposed to talk about having surgery?" he asks, helpless now, shoulders hunched. It's impossible, every choice here the wrong one in some way. He thought he'd chosen the less wrong of them, but now he's not sure. "Or recovering from it?"

J makes a small sound, faintly distressed by how stupid he's managed to be again. He thought that this was a matter of keeping quiet because S didn't want to upset him unnecessarily — something that, in his head, felt incredibly minor and a bit humiliating and also pointless when he still thinks about that night more than he wants to. He hadn't grasped yet that this is that but more. S isn't afraid that J will cry and be stung by the reminder; he's afraid of worse.

J doesn't remember a lot about his first day in Darrow. He was distressed, to put it mildly — not just miserable and afraid, but exhausted. He spent months barely sleeping, hardly eating, desperate and haunted. It took him weeks, even months, in Darrow to start to feel like he'd gotten enough rest and nourishment to feel entirely solid and human. He felt better far before that, but when he arrived, he was barely contained by his own skin, his thoughts wild and hazy. There are some things he won't ever forget and others he's not sure he could repeat if he tried, not quite sure how they got to the apartment or what they did next. He remembers, though, the giddy rush of getting tangled up in each other again and then everything falling apart very quickly. He remembers being overwhelmed by guilt and shame, a moment where he was overcome by the reminder that he'd killed himself for a reason.

It's an uneasy thing to sit with — his suicide, yes, on any given day, but this, too, remembering wanting to stop existing. It's uncomfortable to look back and remember wanting to die. In a strange way, he's grown accustomed to it, but it's somehow embarrassing when it's more than a passing notion on an otherwise ordinary day. He knows he meant it very seriously at the time and that he had good reason for that. He knows S was terrified. But somehow he had mostly let himself forget that was where this started — not just a vague understanding that he couldn't handle it, but a very specific incident of his very much not being able to handle it.

His eyes feel sharp and warm, but he doesn't start crying again — a small victory. Tugging thoughtlessly at S's pants, he shakes his head. "Darling," he murmurs, a helpless plea. It's hard to say it wasn't you and make S believe that, but he'd mean it. It wasn't S specifically. It was the idea of having hurt S. He's not sure he knows how to articulate the difference or if he should try. He's not even sure how to explain the ways in which things have changed, not least when he can't promise that they've changed enough. "That was... bad. I know. I — I wasn't exactly at my best, though. I'd just — just — everything was so fresh and I hadn't slept, I —"

He wrinkles up his nose, not sure how to put this. At the time, nothing had felt entirely real, and then he'd seen the scars and become acutely aware that everything was very, very real. "A lot has changed," he says finally.

All of these are things that S knows, of course. If anything, saying that a lot has changed is putting it mildly. Everything about that day was heightened and hazy, all the emotions of it extreme, snapping from one to another so fast it made his head spin. The year and a half or so since then has had plenty of ups and downs, but it's also been a remarkably stable time, all things considered. Their relationship is, he thinks, better than it's ever been. Of course, there's probably something deeply ironic about considering that when he's in a state of panic and can barely catch his breath for crying, alternating between fear and guilt, each making the other worse, but it's still true. So much has changed. That moment, though, and the sheer, sickening terror he felt, they still happened. There's no undoing them. As much as it's hurt to consider, he can't even be upset with J for reacting to him that way. It's horrible, and he shouldn't have to see it. Neither of them will ever forget that last night, but that doesn't mean J should have to deal with such a stark, present reminder of it, something tethering them to the worst night they shared.

He said the same thing later, too, after all. It was still that same dizzying afternoon, but S remembers too when they finally went to bed together, how J said when they were still discussing it that he didn't think he could see that. S decided then that he should never have to. The way he sees it, he doesn't get to be the one to change that, anyway. That decision is J's, something to be done at his prompting only, and nothing that S would want to be done for his sake, no matter how wrecked he might feel now. It isn't as if it's just that causing this flood of emotions, after all. Being reminded of how he felt then, having upset J by going about this all wrong, seeing no reasonable path to take, knowing that time and again he fucks this up, no matter how hard he tries — all of it leaves him a trembling, miserable mess, entirely at a loss for words.

"I know that," he manages to mumble after a moment, if only because he can't just say nothing. He even turns his head just enough to steal a glance over at J, though it's short-lived, face burying in his knees again just a moment later. However obvious he thinks that much should be, though, and however incapable he feels of articulating the rest, it feels important to be clear on that front. The very last thing he needs now, when he's gotten this so wrong as it is, would be to make J think that he doesn't see them as having moved on past that night at all. Given his own track record, it seems far too likely. "But that doesn't mean —"

He cuts himself off, eyes shut tight as he shakes his head. Even now that J understands what he meant in the first place, he still doesn't know how to explain himself, and it still feels like the damage is done. Had he known it would seem so significant, he probably would have tried to find a way to carefully bring it up before now, but he would have been terrified of doing so. There's no way to win here, nothing that doesn't just end with them both hurt.

It's very rare that S gets like this, but when he does, it scares J — mostly because he doesn't want S to be upset, partly because this specific kind of upset is frighteningly familiar. He can feel the prickling dancing along his forearms, his chest tight, unnerved and unsure if he can make himself move, if it would be welcome if he did.

"It's okay," he murmurs, concern finally breaking through the panicked paralysis, pushing him closer to move his hand to what he can reach of S's back, fingers curling in his shirt and tugging. There's only so much he can manage and he doesn't want to pull S into this if this is one of those moments when space helps more. He can hardly judge for himself what he'll want from one minute to the next; he's not about to assume what S needs. "I'm sorry. I — I didn't think, I'm sorry."

Even when things are good, his old fears are submerged, not drowned. They resurface from time to time. To him, it seemed natural to think that what S did, he did to protect J, more than J wanted to be protected. He should have realized, he thinks, that it was more than that. He remembers now, all too well, how frightened he was early on, too, not for himself but for S, watching him panic for the first time, wondering if he looks the same when it's him. He doesn't want S to feel like he does, not ever. "Come here," he urges, then hesitates. "If you want." What he wants is to hold S close and promise that those days are over, that he's not in any danger of ever again taking his own life — or anyone else's — but he can't. That's one thing he does remember from then, that he promised to try. It wouldn't have been fair to promise he'll never end up there again. Even if he thinks now that it's unlikely, he can't honestly say it's impossible, and he won't lie to S about that now. "I'm here. I'm right here."

Anything else he has to say on the matter, he decides, can wait. There's no point in having a discussion when the only reason he's not having a meltdown anymore is because S is.

If he were thinking more clearly right now, capable of stringing clear thoughts together instead of being overcome with emotion like this, S might find the position they're in somewhat ironic. Although at least this time, there was no abruptly halted attempt at sex preceding it, everything else could be a mirror of the conversation in question. J got upset, and then S got upset in turn, falling apart to the point of needing to be consoled even though the very fact of that shouldn't be fair. He's the one who fucked up here, not J. Except S still can't see anything he could have done that wouldn't have been wrong, and while that's only a very small part of what has him in this state now, it sure as hell doesn't help.

J reaching out to him does, guilty though S feels for it. He doesn't want an apology, but he does want J to hold onto him, nodding emphatically as he shifts a little closer. It's an awkward movement when he's still all curled in on himself like this, but it will, he hopes, be agreement enough, even if it shouldn't have to be a question, even if he shouldn't need this comfort at all.

There are too many things he wants to say, thoughts too hazily formed to find the actual words for. He wants to promise that he doesn't just live in constant terror that J will decide that this second chance at life is too much for him; he wants to try to explain more clearly what went through his head, what held him back from mentioning it. Just like the distance between them just now didn't feel like his to close, it didn't feel like his subject to broach. With J having said that he didn't think he could see the scars, S figured he was then the only one who could say otherwise, and for himself, he went from not wanting to pressure J to not wanting him to have to see them ever. A doctor's appointment might be just tangentially related, but it still brings the same subject to mind, what felt to him like a too visceral reminder, something more than just a distant awareness.

He can't say any of it. Instead, he just swallows hard and whispers, "Please," sniffling before he tries to add anything else. "Don't — you don't need to be sorry."

It's a difficult position to manage, J tucking his legs close under himself as he tugs S closer. With the both of them more or less immobilized by their feelings, it's more complicated than it ought to be to pull S into his arms, but he's determined. He'd feel a lot more pathetic about this if S weren't clearly just as incapacitated, if not more so. With his arms around S, he strokes idly wherever he can reach, trying hard to soothe him, even if J feels like he's going at this all blind. He's not used to being on this end of things.

"But I am," he says, not quite thinking before he does, then pulls a face, both frustrated and apologetic. He turns his head to kiss S's hair. "I didn't think and I should have before I got... upset with you. I made a mess of this." He gets so stuck in his own head, so painfully aware of his own feelings, he often forgets to process that S's motivations aren't always the ones J imagines for him. He's usually pretty good at understanding where S is coming from, but there are blind spots, hidden by his inexplicable anxieties.

It's not like he's not upset anymore. There's still plenty of reason for him to be bothered and worried, but they aren't the reasons he thought they were, not entirely. Not only, at least. And it's not worth bringing any of them up until they're both breathing a little more easily.

S shakes his head, quick but insistent, even as he leans gratefully into J, letting out a shuddering exhale. If anything isn't fair, it's this — him falling apart without any real provocation, putting J in a position to apologize when it's entirely reasonable for him to have been upset. While S really did just think his appointment was inconsequential enough not to merit mentioning, especially given the extenuating circumstances, it clearly seems more significant than that to J. J shouldn't have to apologize for that, or for not thinking about something so awful when it's better that he not be even more weighed down by it.

For S, though, he thinks it was the single most terrifying moment of his entire life, even more so than the moments after J plunged a knife into his chest and wrapped his hands around his throat. He knew he was going to die then, but death at least is finite. Facing a lifetime without J, though, was unbearable once, and infinitely more so when he thought he'd gotten J back only to lose him again. They've come such a long way since then — a lot has changed, like J said — but he feels an echo of that fear now, and having been reminded of it, he can't quite shake it, can't make his tears stop.

His breaths are a little less gasping, at least, one hand blindly reaching out to try to curl in J's shirt when he manages to speak again. "I made a mess of it," he counters, miserable and apologetic. He really did think that it wouldn't matter — that it would be better not to say anything — but that isn't half as important as the fact that he apparently thought wrong. "I'm sorry. For all of it."

J makes a soft, soothing sound, holding S a little tighter. He wants to wave that off and say it's alright, but it isn't. It wouldn't be fair for him to pretend like he's wrong to be bothered by this. He overreacted, and he's sorry for that, but he can't say he had no reason to react in the first place.

"Ah, darling," he murmurs, closing his stinging eyes. "We make a mess of a lot of things. We're figuring it all out still." There's no map for this. His whole life was a matter of blindly finding his way, trying to guess how to follow a route so many others have laid out for them in advance. Now, here, he's trying to determine how to live a life that shouldn't be. They're going to make a lot of mistakes along the way. He doesn't think there's any kind of guide out there for having a mind like his, never mind for dealing with a second chance at life, and it's much easier to be kind to S about it than to himself. "I still shouldn't have snapped at you."

He's been doing well, he thinks, at biting his tongue here. He's not so inclined to shout or argue, and he can usually catch himself before he gives into the impulse when it does arise. Sometimes, though, it's hard. For a moment, this pushed him right back into his defensive corner, angry because he was scared. Rubbing circles against S's back, he breathes in deep. "I wish you'd told me," he says, speaking slowly, wanting to be honest and still to weigh his words. "But I was thinking of it as you hiding something from me that you decided I couldn't handle. I... I hadn't thought about that... about before and how scared you were."

Even mentioning that part makes him uneasy. He doesn't really like to think about how he felt then, how panicked he was, how much he hated himself. It's a battle on any given day not to hate himself as it is, though he usually manages now to keep from letting it completely overwhelm him. But he's also come so far from his first day here and what he remembers of it is so distant and surreal; he doesn't want to bring the visceral panic into it or remember what came before he arrived in Darrow. Even so, there's a lot more he could say, words catching on each other in his urge to reassure S. He holds them back for now, makes himself stay quiet. The last thing they need is for him to get one or both of them worked up again before they've even settled; S is still too shaky and tearful for that, and J won't push him to talk about anything when he can barely breathe.