"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?"
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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?"