J makes a soft, soothing sound, holding S a little tighter. He wants to wave that off and say it's alright, but it isn't. It wouldn't be fair for him to pretend like he's wrong to be bothered by this. He overreacted, and he's sorry for that, but he can't say he had no reason to react in the first place.
"Ah, darling," he murmurs, closing his stinging eyes. "We make a mess of a lot of things. We're figuring it all out still." There's no map for this. His whole life was a matter of blindly finding his way, trying to guess how to follow a route so many others have laid out for them in advance. Now, here, he's trying to determine how to live a life that shouldn't be. They're going to make a lot of mistakes along the way. He doesn't think there's any kind of guide out there for having a mind like his, never mind for dealing with a second chance at life, and it's much easier to be kind to S about it than to himself. "I still shouldn't have snapped at you."
He's been doing well, he thinks, at biting his tongue here. He's not so inclined to shout or argue, and he can usually catch himself before he gives into the impulse when it does arise. Sometimes, though, it's hard. For a moment, this pushed him right back into his defensive corner, angry because he was scared. Rubbing circles against S's back, he breathes in deep. "I wish you'd told me," he says, speaking slowly, wanting to be honest and still to weigh his words. "But I was thinking of it as you hiding something from me that you decided I couldn't handle. I... I hadn't thought about that... about before and how scared you were."
Even mentioning that part makes him uneasy. He doesn't really like to think about how he felt then, how panicked he was, how much he hated himself. It's a battle on any given day not to hate himself as it is, though he usually manages now to keep from letting it completely overwhelm him. But he's also come so far from his first day here and what he remembers of it is so distant and surreal; he doesn't want to bring the visceral panic into it or remember what came before he arrived in Darrow. Even so, there's a lot more he could say, words catching on each other in his urge to reassure S. He holds them back for now, makes himself stay quiet. The last thing they need is for him to get one or both of them worked up again before they've even settled; S is still too shaky and tearful for that, and J won't push him to talk about anything when he can barely breathe.
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"Ah, darling," he murmurs, closing his stinging eyes. "We make a mess of a lot of things. We're figuring it all out still." There's no map for this. His whole life was a matter of blindly finding his way, trying to guess how to follow a route so many others have laid out for them in advance. Now, here, he's trying to determine how to live a life that shouldn't be. They're going to make a lot of mistakes along the way. He doesn't think there's any kind of guide out there for having a mind like his, never mind for dealing with a second chance at life, and it's much easier to be kind to S about it than to himself. "I still shouldn't have snapped at you."
He's been doing well, he thinks, at biting his tongue here. He's not so inclined to shout or argue, and he can usually catch himself before he gives into the impulse when it does arise. Sometimes, though, it's hard. For a moment, this pushed him right back into his defensive corner, angry because he was scared. Rubbing circles against S's back, he breathes in deep. "I wish you'd told me," he says, speaking slowly, wanting to be honest and still to weigh his words. "But I was thinking of it as you hiding something from me that you decided I couldn't handle. I... I hadn't thought about that... about before and how scared you were."
Even mentioning that part makes him uneasy. He doesn't really like to think about how he felt then, how panicked he was, how much he hated himself. It's a battle on any given day not to hate himself as it is, though he usually manages now to keep from letting it completely overwhelm him. But he's also come so far from his first day here and what he remembers of it is so distant and surreal; he doesn't want to bring the visceral panic into it or remember what came before he arrived in Darrow. Even so, there's a lot more he could say, words catching on each other in his urge to reassure S. He holds them back for now, makes himself stay quiet. The last thing they need is for him to get one or both of them worked up again before they've even settled; S is still too shaky and tearful for that, and J won't push him to talk about anything when he can barely breathe.