It takes effort to move, to make himself lift his hand even enough to wipe his eyes. Even before he manages it, though, he can see the way S has moved, how he's folded in on himself, too, and he feels horrible for it. If he could just control his emotions, if he could respond reasonably instead of getting worked up at the first sign of things not going the way he'd like, then they wouldn't be like this. He'd be upset regardless, he's sure, but they could have just had a fucking conversation if he weren't such a child.
So it's a relief to, for just a moment, feel a flash of exasperation amid the hurt. It's not anger or despair, just something tired and a little sad, and he can handle that. That S apologizes — well, it makes him feel guilty, too, but it tempers the lingering frustration just a bit. He understands the urge to double down in an argument, but he doesn't think he's the only one in the wrong here. Having S seem to understand sincerely that, if nothing else, he hasn't gotten this right helps. Fingers stretching, shoulders pressing back, he tries to loosen his limbs a bit, though it doesn't do much. As badly as he wants to reach back over to S — actually, what he wants is to tumble over and lean against him, not have to hold himself up at all — he can't make himself unfurl quite that much.
"And you want to hear," he says, hoarse from crying but pushing himself to speak up a bit rather than hiding his face in his arms, "all the things I have to say? The nightmares and the memories and everything I did? Sihyun-ah..." He sighs, breath hitching. It's hard to make himself speak clearly — or at all — or to breathe properly. He can only manage maybe one of those at a time right now. He scraps his thumbnail over his collarbone, the small sharpness of it helping to steady him. "I don't have to like things to... to want to be here. I know what I did either way." No amount of silence can ever change that. Not talking about it doesn't mean it didn't happen. When J still can't entirely forgive himself, he's hardly about to forget. S talks well about wanting to know things, about wanting J to talk, and J would yell at him for not wanting to give him the same courtesy if he had the energy to do so and if he weren't so sad.
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So it's a relief to, for just a moment, feel a flash of exasperation amid the hurt. It's not anger or despair, just something tired and a little sad, and he can handle that. That S apologizes — well, it makes him feel guilty, too, but it tempers the lingering frustration just a bit. He understands the urge to double down in an argument, but he doesn't think he's the only one in the wrong here. Having S seem to understand sincerely that, if nothing else, he hasn't gotten this right helps. Fingers stretching, shoulders pressing back, he tries to loosen his limbs a bit, though it doesn't do much. As badly as he wants to reach back over to S — actually, what he wants is to tumble over and lean against him, not have to hold himself up at all — he can't make himself unfurl quite that much.
"And you want to hear," he says, hoarse from crying but pushing himself to speak up a bit rather than hiding his face in his arms, "all the things I have to say? The nightmares and the memories and everything I did? Sihyun-ah..." He sighs, breath hitching. It's hard to make himself speak clearly — or at all — or to breathe properly. He can only manage maybe one of those at a time right now. He scraps his thumbnail over his collarbone, the small sharpness of it helping to steady him. "I don't have to like things to... to want to be here. I know what I did either way." No amount of silence can ever change that. Not talking about it doesn't mean it didn't happen. When J still can't entirely forgive himself, he's hardly about to forget. S talks well about wanting to know things, about wanting J to talk, and J would yell at him for not wanting to give him the same courtesy if he had the energy to do so and if he weren't so sad.