S doesn't know how they got here. It's an utterly unhelpful thing to think, but it's true, too, the shift in mood making him feel like he has whiplash of some kind. They were just having a perfectly nice conversation, making a plan to do something that he very much would like to do, and then he had to go and say what he said the way that he said it. That's the problem, really, and also what's so confusing. He didn't intend to say it, but he still said it. He could just as easily have brought it up now intentionally, and everything else would still be exactly the same. Somehow, though it happens far more rarely now than it used to, they keep winding up here, and he doesn't know what the fuck to do about it, how he always gets things so wrong. There's no one in the world, this or any other, that he loves a fraction as much as J, that he's as willing to talk to, that he hates upsetting this much. Somehow he always does.
And it's probably a stupid thing, to still be so stung by J's pulling his hand away when there's so much more that's wrong, but he does all the same. Maybe it's just easier, he reasons, to fixate on the smallest part of this, the one that doesn't make his head spin. Watching the way J looks now, hunched over and in tears, S wants nothing more than to pull him close and comfort him, except that he's somehow the reason J needs comforting, and he can't bear the thought of J pulling away from him again. It's more than he could take right now, his breathing unsteady as he brings his feet up onto the couch cushion, arms wrapping around his bent legs. If he could go back in time two fucking minutes, he would. He gets the sense, though, that in some way or another, it wouldn't make all that much difference.
"Of course it's not better for me," he replies, a wounded protest, and the one thing he can say for sure right now. It may be simpler to keep things like that to himself, but he's never liked withholding anything from J, going all the way back to when they were kids and he was too scared to come out to his best friend. Here, he's always hated that this subject feels like it has to be off-limits, something he still has to bear alone, but it does. "I — I didn't think you'd want to hear about any of that."
He thought, too, still does, that it would only make it worse for J to have to consider those details. A small, petty part of S is half-tempted to bring them up now, to ask if J really wants to hear about the physical damage he sustained beyond the basic overview of being stabbed, but he doesn't have it in him to be that cold. He's too upset for that, trying and failing to fight off tears, wanting nothing more than to make this right. "I'm sorry."
no subject
And it's probably a stupid thing, to still be so stung by J's pulling his hand away when there's so much more that's wrong, but he does all the same. Maybe it's just easier, he reasons, to fixate on the smallest part of this, the one that doesn't make his head spin. Watching the way J looks now, hunched over and in tears, S wants nothing more than to pull him close and comfort him, except that he's somehow the reason J needs comforting, and he can't bear the thought of J pulling away from him again. It's more than he could take right now, his breathing unsteady as he brings his feet up onto the couch cushion, arms wrapping around his bent legs. If he could go back in time two fucking minutes, he would. He gets the sense, though, that in some way or another, it wouldn't make all that much difference.
"Of course it's not better for me," he replies, a wounded protest, and the one thing he can say for sure right now. It may be simpler to keep things like that to himself, but he's never liked withholding anything from J, going all the way back to when they were kids and he was too scared to come out to his best friend. Here, he's always hated that this subject feels like it has to be off-limits, something he still has to bear alone, but it does. "I — I didn't think you'd want to hear about any of that."
He thought, too, still does, that it would only make it worse for J to have to consider those details. A small, petty part of S is half-tempted to bring them up now, to ask if J really wants to hear about the physical damage he sustained beyond the basic overview of being stabbed, but he doesn't have it in him to be that cold. He's too upset for that, trying and failing to fight off tears, wanting nothing more than to make this right. "I'm sorry."