It's very rare that S gets like this, but when he does, it scares J — mostly because he doesn't want S to be upset, partly because this specific kind of upset is frighteningly familiar. He can feel the prickling dancing along his forearms, his chest tight, unnerved and unsure if he can make himself move, if it would be welcome if he did.
"It's okay," he murmurs, concern finally breaking through the panicked paralysis, pushing him closer to move his hand to what he can reach of S's back, fingers curling in his shirt and tugging. There's only so much he can manage and he doesn't want to pull S into this if this is one of those moments when space helps more. He can hardly judge for himself what he'll want from one minute to the next; he's not about to assume what S needs. "I'm sorry. I — I didn't think, I'm sorry."
Even when things are good, his old fears are submerged, not drowned. They resurface from time to time. To him, it seemed natural to think that what S did, he did to protect J, more than J wanted to be protected. He should have realized, he thinks, that it was more than that. He remembers now, all too well, how frightened he was early on, too, not for himself but for S, watching him panic for the first time, wondering if he looks the same when it's him. He doesn't want S to feel like he does, not ever. "Come here," he urges, then hesitates. "If you want." What he wants is to hold S close and promise that those days are over, that he's not in any danger of ever again taking his own life — or anyone else's — but he can't. That's one thing he does remember from then, that he promised to try. It wouldn't have been fair to promise he'll never end up there again. Even if he thinks now that it's unlikely, he can't honestly say it's impossible, and he won't lie to S about that now. "I'm here. I'm right here."
Anything else he has to say on the matter, he decides, can wait. There's no point in having a discussion when the only reason he's not having a meltdown anymore is because S is.
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"It's okay," he murmurs, concern finally breaking through the panicked paralysis, pushing him closer to move his hand to what he can reach of S's back, fingers curling in his shirt and tugging. There's only so much he can manage and he doesn't want to pull S into this if this is one of those moments when space helps more. He can hardly judge for himself what he'll want from one minute to the next; he's not about to assume what S needs. "I'm sorry. I — I didn't think, I'm sorry."
Even when things are good, his old fears are submerged, not drowned. They resurface from time to time. To him, it seemed natural to think that what S did, he did to protect J, more than J wanted to be protected. He should have realized, he thinks, that it was more than that. He remembers now, all too well, how frightened he was early on, too, not for himself but for S, watching him panic for the first time, wondering if he looks the same when it's him. He doesn't want S to feel like he does, not ever. "Come here," he urges, then hesitates. "If you want." What he wants is to hold S close and promise that those days are over, that he's not in any danger of ever again taking his own life — or anyone else's — but he can't. That's one thing he does remember from then, that he promised to try. It wouldn't have been fair to promise he'll never end up there again. Even if he thinks now that it's unlikely, he can't honestly say it's impossible, and he won't lie to S about that now. "I'm here. I'm right here."
Anything else he has to say on the matter, he decides, can wait. There's no point in having a discussion when the only reason he's not having a meltdown anymore is because S is.