J sighs, eyes closed, keeping S close. If there's more he can do, he can't think of it, his nerves still pulled too tight and mind fuzzy at the edges from upset and panic. They're different and the things they feel are different, but often the best J can do, when at a loss for how to help, is try to imagine what he'd need, and he doesn't know. Sometimes there just isn't anything that can be done except to sit and wait and hold him. He's not sure arguing — even very gently — would be at all helpful here.
"Are you sure?" he asks anyway. He can't pretend he's not thinking this. It wouldn't be fair, and it would definitely be hypocritical right now. Not that he hasn't been both unfair and hypocritical on any number of occasions, but he's trying. "It doesn't... seem fine, Sihyun-ah." It makes sense that S would think about all that; in a way, J is grateful. If S is thinking about what J did and what he almost did, but says he doesn't think J is in imminent danger of killing himself again, then at least the fear, however potent, is a past one. It's less an open wound than a bruise. J doesn't know how to begin to explain the truth, how it still occurs to him sometimes, in the same way it might occur to him that he could get a haircut. It's there and then it's gone again, sometimes vague and sometimes vivid, sometimes brief and sometimes lingering. Sometimes it leaves him shaken; most of the time, it's just an awkward uneasiness that he's almost accustomed to. There's no bite to it, no desire to follow through. It's just a thought.
"If it were," he continues slowly, gently stroking S's back, "you would have told me sooner, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have had to decide it wasn't worth it. Do you — do you think if we talk about it, I —" He winces. Even now, it's hard to speak directly about what he did. It feels too blunt just to put it out there, even though they both know in painful detail. He sucks in a sharp breath. "Ah, darling, I... I can handle it. I think I can. We've talked about it before, haven't we? I'm still... here."
It's not quite the same, he knows. That day, it wasn't because they talked about it; it was what he saw. Even so, he thinks, he saw those scars without any preparation for what would happen, without much if any chance to calm down from everything that had happened earlier. If they'd had the time and sense and presence of mind to slow down and talk first, to wait a couple of days until he'd slept some and recovered a little, he might not have reacted anywhere near so poorly. Fragile as he was in those first weeks, he could have managed that, he thinks. Instead, he botched everything. A year and a half later, and it still haunts them.
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"Are you sure?" he asks anyway. He can't pretend he's not thinking this. It wouldn't be fair, and it would definitely be hypocritical right now. Not that he hasn't been both unfair and hypocritical on any number of occasions, but he's trying. "It doesn't... seem fine, Sihyun-ah." It makes sense that S would think about all that; in a way, J is grateful. If S is thinking about what J did and what he almost did, but says he doesn't think J is in imminent danger of killing himself again, then at least the fear, however potent, is a past one. It's less an open wound than a bruise. J doesn't know how to begin to explain the truth, how it still occurs to him sometimes, in the same way it might occur to him that he could get a haircut. It's there and then it's gone again, sometimes vague and sometimes vivid, sometimes brief and sometimes lingering. Sometimes it leaves him shaken; most of the time, it's just an awkward uneasiness that he's almost accustomed to. There's no bite to it, no desire to follow through. It's just a thought.
"If it were," he continues slowly, gently stroking S's back, "you would have told me sooner, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have had to decide it wasn't worth it. Do you — do you think if we talk about it, I —" He winces. Even now, it's hard to speak directly about what he did. It feels too blunt just to put it out there, even though they both know in painful detail. He sucks in a sharp breath. "Ah, darling, I... I can handle it. I think I can. We've talked about it before, haven't we? I'm still... here."
It's not quite the same, he knows. That day, it wasn't because they talked about it; it was what he saw. Even so, he thinks, he saw those scars without any preparation for what would happen, without much if any chance to calm down from everything that had happened earlier. If they'd had the time and sense and presence of mind to slow down and talk first, to wait a couple of days until he'd slept some and recovered a little, he might not have reacted anywhere near so poorly. Fragile as he was in those first weeks, he could have managed that, he thinks. Instead, he botched everything. A year and a half later, and it still haunts them.