S shakes his head, quick but insistent, even as he leans gratefully into J, letting out a shuddering exhale. If anything isn't fair, it's this — him falling apart without any real provocation, putting J in a position to apologize when it's entirely reasonable for him to have been upset. While S really did just think his appointment was inconsequential enough not to merit mentioning, especially given the extenuating circumstances, it clearly seems more significant than that to J. J shouldn't have to apologize for that, or for not thinking about something so awful when it's better that he not be even more weighed down by it.

For S, though, he thinks it was the single most terrifying moment of his entire life, even more so than the moments after J plunged a knife into his chest and wrapped his hands around his throat. He knew he was going to die then, but death at least is finite. Facing a lifetime without J, though, was unbearable once, and infinitely more so when he thought he'd gotten J back only to lose him again. They've come such a long way since then — a lot has changed, like J said — but he feels an echo of that fear now, and having been reminded of it, he can't quite shake it, can't make his tears stop.

His breaths are a little less gasping, at least, one hand blindly reaching out to try to curl in J's shirt when he manages to speak again. "I made a mess of it," he counters, miserable and apologetic. He really did think that it wouldn't matter — that it would be better not to say anything — but that isn't half as important as the fact that he apparently thought wrong. "I'm sorry. For all of it."