Put like that, it sounds fair, enough so that S can't help feeling another sick surge of guilt. If he'd just said something, they could have avoided this whole fucking mess. All of that is in theory, though, when in practice, he still doesn't know how he could have. Had he realized the depth of his feelings about this, maybe he would have thought it was worthwhile to broach the subject, but he thought he was doing the right thing, leaving it in J's hands, not putting any pressure on him. J was the one who said, that first day, that he didn't think he could see all of that yet. S didn't really give it much thought beyond that, his own feelings seeming far less consequential. He thought he'd just accepted it. He didn't know everything had built up like this, growing until it couldn't be contained.
Probably he should have. There is, he thinks, something deeply ironic in the fact that this started because of him not telling J something, when the times he's let himself think about it, he's hated feeling like he couldn't talk about it. Keeping things from J has felt unnatural for practically all the time they've known each other, and this is something so big, a whole several months of his life that he hasn't been able to bring up. Even now, he doubts it would do any good to get into the details.
Most of them, anyway. Everything J has said is a lot to take in, especially when he feels like this, still so shaken, but the quiet surprise in J telling him it looked like more sticks in his head over the rest of it. At least getting that out of the way seems simpler than all the rest of it. "Of course it did," he says, likewise quiet, not having it in him to look at J as he says this. "Look like more. I had surgery." That scar is the worst of them, too, and the hardest for him to look at, a prominent line down the center of his chest. Already he half-expects J to say that it makes no difference, given that he wouldn't have needed surgery in the first place had it not been for the stab wounds, but the very fucking least he can do is provide clarification.
That part is simpler than the rest of it, though it probably shouldn't be. S knows it just makes sense, and that he can't deny something that he's been so insistent about offering. He doesn't want to need it, doesn't want to make J have to deal with this, but it's too late to take it back now. Breath catching, shuddering, he makes himself give a slight nod, eyes shut tight as if that will hold back more tears. It doesn't. "Maybe," he allows. "Maybe you could."
no subject
Probably he should have. There is, he thinks, something deeply ironic in the fact that this started because of him not telling J something, when the times he's let himself think about it, he's hated feeling like he couldn't talk about it. Keeping things from J has felt unnatural for practically all the time they've known each other, and this is something so big, a whole several months of his life that he hasn't been able to bring up. Even now, he doubts it would do any good to get into the details.
Most of them, anyway. Everything J has said is a lot to take in, especially when he feels like this, still so shaken, but the quiet surprise in J telling him it looked like more sticks in his head over the rest of it. At least getting that out of the way seems simpler than all the rest of it. "Of course it did," he says, likewise quiet, not having it in him to look at J as he says this. "Look like more. I had surgery." That scar is the worst of them, too, and the hardest for him to look at, a prominent line down the center of his chest. Already he half-expects J to say that it makes no difference, given that he wouldn't have needed surgery in the first place had it not been for the stab wounds, but the very fucking least he can do is provide clarification.
That part is simpler than the rest of it, though it probably shouldn't be. S knows it just makes sense, and that he can't deny something that he's been so insistent about offering. He doesn't want to need it, doesn't want to make J have to deal with this, but it's too late to take it back now. Breath catching, shuddering, he makes himself give a slight nod, eyes shut tight as if that will hold back more tears. It doesn't. "Maybe," he allows. "Maybe you could."