If he were thinking more clearly right now, capable of stringing clear thoughts together instead of being overcome with emotion like this, S might find the position they're in somewhat ironic. Although at least this time, there was no abruptly halted attempt at sex preceding it, everything else could be a mirror of the conversation in question. J got upset, and then S got upset in turn, falling apart to the point of needing to be consoled even though the very fact of that shouldn't be fair. He's the one who fucked up here, not J. Except S still can't see anything he could have done that wouldn't have been wrong, and while that's only a very small part of what has him in this state now, it sure as hell doesn't help.
J reaching out to him does, guilty though S feels for it. He doesn't want an apology, but he does want J to hold onto him, nodding emphatically as he shifts a little closer. It's an awkward movement when he's still all curled in on himself like this, but it will, he hopes, be agreement enough, even if it shouldn't have to be a question, even if he shouldn't need this comfort at all.
There are too many things he wants to say, thoughts too hazily formed to find the actual words for. He wants to promise that he doesn't just live in constant terror that J will decide that this second chance at life is too much for him; he wants to try to explain more clearly what went through his head, what held him back from mentioning it. Just like the distance between them just now didn't feel like his to close, it didn't feel like his subject to broach. With J having said that he didn't think he could see the scars, S figured he was then the only one who could say otherwise, and for himself, he went from not wanting to pressure J to not wanting him to have to see them ever. A doctor's appointment might be just tangentially related, but it still brings the same subject to mind, what felt to him like a too visceral reminder, something more than just a distant awareness.
He can't say any of it. Instead, he just swallows hard and whispers, "Please," sniffling before he tries to add anything else. "Don't — you don't need to be sorry."
no subject
J reaching out to him does, guilty though S feels for it. He doesn't want an apology, but he does want J to hold onto him, nodding emphatically as he shifts a little closer. It's an awkward movement when he's still all curled in on himself like this, but it will, he hopes, be agreement enough, even if it shouldn't have to be a question, even if he shouldn't need this comfort at all.
There are too many things he wants to say, thoughts too hazily formed to find the actual words for. He wants to promise that he doesn't just live in constant terror that J will decide that this second chance at life is too much for him; he wants to try to explain more clearly what went through his head, what held him back from mentioning it. Just like the distance between them just now didn't feel like his to close, it didn't feel like his subject to broach. With J having said that he didn't think he could see the scars, S figured he was then the only one who could say otherwise, and for himself, he went from not wanting to pressure J to not wanting him to have to see them ever. A doctor's appointment might be just tangentially related, but it still brings the same subject to mind, what felt to him like a too visceral reminder, something more than just a distant awareness.
He can't say any of it. Instead, he just swallows hard and whispers, "Please," sniffling before he tries to add anything else. "Don't — you don't need to be sorry."