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.
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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.