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."
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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."