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.
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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.