S hates this, everything about it. The distance between them that shouldn't be there, the way J looks and sounds from crying, the sense both that this is all his fault because he fucks everything up and that there's no reason for it to be such a big deal, the fact that they once again both seem to be just missing something from the other — it makes him miserable, a sharp, steady ache in the middle of his chest, and that alone just makes everything seem worse. A few minutes ago, they were fine. He still doesn't really understand it, what changed, how they got here. All of it leaves him feeling tense and restless, in the sort of way where he knows he could too easily snap, though at least he has the sense not to. It's just that, for him, it seems painfully obvious why he wouldn't have said anything.
It isn't that he would want to hold back telling J anything important, even if it might be upsetting. J has been there through nearly everything, all but that last, worst time in the life he had before he got here. When his parents died — when he thought he might have to move hours away, when his grades went so downhill he wasn't sure he would be able to get into any decent school — J is the person he turned to with all of it, the only one he would go to with any of it. That first night in their studio, as it finally sunk in that he would never get to go back to his childhood home again, J held him while he cried himself to sleep, before they knew what they would become to each other. It's just always been J, in every way. That is, perhaps, albeit counterintuitively, what's held him back here. Of course he doesn't want to talk about, to make clear the extent of the damage of, what might set J on a course toward not wanting to be here anymore.
So much of the day J arrived is a blur. Those few horrible moments, though, S remembers with a sickening clarity. He'd been so terrified that he might and so certain that he would lose J again, and something in him both broke and grew resolved not to let that come up again. Of course J knows what he did, but he shouldn't have to be confronted with the lingering effects of it. If that means not talking about routine doctor's appointments, or never taking his shirt off in front of his boyfriend, then S will do it without question. Now, he just doesn't know what to do, when every choice feels like the wrong one, equally likely to lead to some kind of disaster.
"I know you're here," he says, frustrated and sad and pleading, drawing further in on himself. This, too, is counterintuitive. J is saying that he's here, and S is agreeing, and yet he feels suddenly so achingly, frighteningly alone, his breathing shaky as he tries both to maintain his composure and figure out what to say to explain himself, to fix this, to stop everything from spinning so far out of control. "That's — I just want to keep it that way."
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It isn't that he would want to hold back telling J anything important, even if it might be upsetting. J has been there through nearly everything, all but that last, worst time in the life he had before he got here. When his parents died — when he thought he might have to move hours away, when his grades went so downhill he wasn't sure he would be able to get into any decent school — J is the person he turned to with all of it, the only one he would go to with any of it. That first night in their studio, as it finally sunk in that he would never get to go back to his childhood home again, J held him while he cried himself to sleep, before they knew what they would become to each other. It's just always been J, in every way. That is, perhaps, albeit counterintuitively, what's held him back here. Of course he doesn't want to talk about, to make clear the extent of the damage of, what might set J on a course toward not wanting to be here anymore.
So much of the day J arrived is a blur. Those few horrible moments, though, S remembers with a sickening clarity. He'd been so terrified that he might and so certain that he would lose J again, and something in him both broke and grew resolved not to let that come up again. Of course J knows what he did, but he shouldn't have to be confronted with the lingering effects of it. If that means not talking about routine doctor's appointments, or never taking his shirt off in front of his boyfriend, then S will do it without question. Now, he just doesn't know what to do, when every choice feels like the wrong one, equally likely to lead to some kind of disaster.
"I know you're here," he says, frustrated and sad and pleading, drawing further in on himself. This, too, is counterintuitive. J is saying that he's here, and S is agreeing, and yet he feels suddenly so achingly, frighteningly alone, his breathing shaky as he tries both to maintain his composure and figure out what to say to explain himself, to fix this, to stop everything from spinning so far out of control. "That's — I just want to keep it that way."