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?
no subject
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?