Somehow, scattered though his thoughts may be, S isn't surprised in the slightest that J doesn't understand what he's said, what he means. They do this so fucking often — not nearly as much as they used to, or with as disastrous consequences, but both just missing each other in a way, getting close to but not quite grasping what's actually meant. In a purely physical sense, he knows, of course, that J looks at him. For that matter, there's a small measure of relief in feeling J's fingers curl around his pant leg, a little of that physical distance between them closed, even if S is too shaky now, trying too hard and still failing miserably to regain some composure, to reciprocate the gesture. What he would really like is to be held, or barring that, to falling apart not in front of his boyfriend, but he can't ask for the former and the latter isn't even an option. They're too deep in this now. He's too far gone, and he has to explain himself, even though the words stick in his throat, too terrifying to validate by speaking out loud.

Aside from those first days, and maybe once or twice since, they haven't talked about it. In all honesty, S kind of suspected that they never would, and he became alright with that because he had to be, eventually coming to prefer it. Knowing the effect that the sight of him had on J before, of course he wouldn't want J to have to see the scars left behind from that night, to make those awful few moments an even more present part of their relationship than they already are and will be. It stings a little, it always does, but it's better by far than the alternative, and an unbelievably low cost to pay to be together, all things considered. He has J, a miraculous impossibility in itself, and most of the time, everything between them is really, really good, the best it's ever been. Not being shirtless isn't even an inconvenience, really, when held up to that. It just is, and it's better, then, to leave it tucked aside, a nonissue, just a simple state of being.

Except now that he's said it, and failed at saying it, that's no longer the case. At least for right now, he has to try to put words to the thoughts in his head, an increasingly difficult task when he can barely think straight or catch his breath, a wave of panic he hasn't felt in a long time crashing over him.

"That's not what I mean," he says, quietly pleading again, even as he knows that there's nothing to be done but keep talking. "The day you got here, you got one — one glimpse of me, of —" Although it may not mean anything when he has his legs bent up to his chest, he unwraps one arm just enough to gesture over where his heart, and the scars there, would be. "And you were going to —"

Faltering as his words are, he doesn't know if this will be clear enough, either. All he can do is hope it is, when he's not sure he has it in him to say it more outright than that. "So how am I supposed to talk about having surgery?" he asks, helpless now, shoulders hunched. It's impossible, every choice here the wrong one in some way. He thought he'd chosen the less wrong of them, but now he's not sure. "Or recovering from it?"