J makes a small sound, faintly distressed by how stupid he's managed to be again. He thought that this was a matter of keeping quiet because S didn't want to upset him unnecessarily — something that, in his head, felt incredibly minor and a bit humiliating and also pointless when he still thinks about that night more than he wants to. He hadn't grasped yet that this is that but more. S isn't afraid that J will cry and be stung by the reminder; he's afraid of worse.
J doesn't remember a lot about his first day in Darrow. He was distressed, to put it mildly — not just miserable and afraid, but exhausted. He spent months barely sleeping, hardly eating, desperate and haunted. It took him weeks, even months, in Darrow to start to feel like he'd gotten enough rest and nourishment to feel entirely solid and human. He felt better far before that, but when he arrived, he was barely contained by his own skin, his thoughts wild and hazy. There are some things he won't ever forget and others he's not sure he could repeat if he tried, not quite sure how they got to the apartment or what they did next. He remembers, though, the giddy rush of getting tangled up in each other again and then everything falling apart very quickly. He remembers being overwhelmed by guilt and shame, a moment where he was overcome by the reminder that he'd killed himself for a reason.
It's an uneasy thing to sit with — his suicide, yes, on any given day, but this, too, remembering wanting to stop existing. It's uncomfortable to look back and remember wanting to die. In a strange way, he's grown accustomed to it, but it's somehow embarrassing when it's more than a passing notion on an otherwise ordinary day. He knows he meant it very seriously at the time and that he had good reason for that. He knows S was terrified. But somehow he had mostly let himself forget that was where this started — not just a vague understanding that he couldn't handle it, but a very specific incident of his very much not being able to handle it.
His eyes feel sharp and warm, but he doesn't start crying again — a small victory. Tugging thoughtlessly at S's pants, he shakes his head. "Darling," he murmurs, a helpless plea. It's hard to say it wasn't you and make S believe that, but he'd mean it. It wasn't S specifically. It was the idea of having hurt S. He's not sure he knows how to articulate the difference or if he should try. He's not even sure how to explain the ways in which things have changed, not least when he can't promise that they've changed enough. "That was... bad. I know. I — I wasn't exactly at my best, though. I'd just — just — everything was so fresh and I hadn't slept, I —"
He wrinkles up his nose, not sure how to put this. At the time, nothing had felt entirely real, and then he'd seen the scars and become acutely aware that everything was very, very real. "A lot has changed," he says finally.
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J doesn't remember a lot about his first day in Darrow. He was distressed, to put it mildly — not just miserable and afraid, but exhausted. He spent months barely sleeping, hardly eating, desperate and haunted. It took him weeks, even months, in Darrow to start to feel like he'd gotten enough rest and nourishment to feel entirely solid and human. He felt better far before that, but when he arrived, he was barely contained by his own skin, his thoughts wild and hazy. There are some things he won't ever forget and others he's not sure he could repeat if he tried, not quite sure how they got to the apartment or what they did next. He remembers, though, the giddy rush of getting tangled up in each other again and then everything falling apart very quickly. He remembers being overwhelmed by guilt and shame, a moment where he was overcome by the reminder that he'd killed himself for a reason.
It's an uneasy thing to sit with — his suicide, yes, on any given day, but this, too, remembering wanting to stop existing. It's uncomfortable to look back and remember wanting to die. In a strange way, he's grown accustomed to it, but it's somehow embarrassing when it's more than a passing notion on an otherwise ordinary day. He knows he meant it very seriously at the time and that he had good reason for that. He knows S was terrified. But somehow he had mostly let himself forget that was where this started — not just a vague understanding that he couldn't handle it, but a very specific incident of his very much not being able to handle it.
His eyes feel sharp and warm, but he doesn't start crying again — a small victory. Tugging thoughtlessly at S's pants, he shakes his head. "Darling," he murmurs, a helpless plea. It's hard to say it wasn't you and make S believe that, but he'd mean it. It wasn't S specifically. It was the idea of having hurt S. He's not sure he knows how to articulate the difference or if he should try. He's not even sure how to explain the ways in which things have changed, not least when he can't promise that they've changed enough. "That was... bad. I know. I — I wasn't exactly at my best, though. I'd just — just — everything was so fresh and I hadn't slept, I —"
He wrinkles up his nose, not sure how to put this. At the time, nothing had felt entirely real, and then he'd seen the scars and become acutely aware that everything was very, very real. "A lot has changed," he says finally.