J's breath catches, but he doesn't say a word, not quite having expected S just to go for it so abruptly. It's an instinct he understands, though, something they have in common, not always for the best. He hopes this time it is, that this will be something they get right, though a small part of him is almost grateful that S is so visibly shaken. Focusing on S, worrying about his wellbeing, it keeps J focused on S and what they're doing, rather than his own anxiety.
It's still there, of course, a low-level buzz underneath his skin, the faint fear that he's made a mistake, diving in before he was really ready just because the subject came up. He doesn't want to think he'd do that, not when it's S that's in the balance, but trusting himself is still hard, especially when it comes to things that matter. His arm still around S, he keeps his breathing slow and steady, gaze darting from S's trembling hands to his face. As much as he wants S to look at him, it makes sense to him, in a terrible lurching flash, that he wouldn't. And maybe that's for the best — for S's peace of mind, but also for J, not having to worry as much about his expression, the way it slides from worry to wariness, concern to caution. Stomach twisting, he looks, gaze trailing down from S's face to his shoulder and slowly lower to the network of scars across his chest, J's lungs constricting at the sight.
It hurts, it does, but he expected that it would. He steels himself against that, stubborn as ever, and remembers to start breathing again, repeating a litany of reassurance in his head. It really isn't anywhere close to as bad as it was before, whatever S has said, and J doesn't know if that's because S has healed more over the last year and a half or because seeing it the first time was so overwhelming that it looked worse to him. Maybe he just built it up in his head, spun out of panic and months of hindsight. Either way, it does make his heart ache to think of S dealing with this alone, but it also isn't unbearable. It will take time, he tells himself. He was never just going to be happy and comfortable with this, least of all right away.
And, anyway, much of the hurt in his eyes is for S, more than himself and his own guilt. Lifting a hand to S's cheek, he leans in to kiss the other again. "Are you okay?" he murmurs. "It's okay. I'm okay." He hates who he was, who he became, the parts of him that coalesced into his darkest self. He hates that he was capable of this. But he hasn't yet fallen apart, and that gives him hope he won't do so at all. There's a flicker of curiosity in his throat, gaze dropping briefly again and then back up to S. He wants to look more closely, to familiarize himself with the sight, to acclimate; he wants to touch, for that matter, so that he knows, and so it won't be a surprise in the future. Until he's sure of S's comfort with it, though, he won't let himself do either.
no subject
It's still there, of course, a low-level buzz underneath his skin, the faint fear that he's made a mistake, diving in before he was really ready just because the subject came up. He doesn't want to think he'd do that, not when it's S that's in the balance, but trusting himself is still hard, especially when it comes to things that matter. His arm still around S, he keeps his breathing slow and steady, gaze darting from S's trembling hands to his face. As much as he wants S to look at him, it makes sense to him, in a terrible lurching flash, that he wouldn't. And maybe that's for the best — for S's peace of mind, but also for J, not having to worry as much about his expression, the way it slides from worry to wariness, concern to caution. Stomach twisting, he looks, gaze trailing down from S's face to his shoulder and slowly lower to the network of scars across his chest, J's lungs constricting at the sight.
It hurts, it does, but he expected that it would. He steels himself against that, stubborn as ever, and remembers to start breathing again, repeating a litany of reassurance in his head. It really isn't anywhere close to as bad as it was before, whatever S has said, and J doesn't know if that's because S has healed more over the last year and a half or because seeing it the first time was so overwhelming that it looked worse to him. Maybe he just built it up in his head, spun out of panic and months of hindsight. Either way, it does make his heart ache to think of S dealing with this alone, but it also isn't unbearable. It will take time, he tells himself. He was never just going to be happy and comfortable with this, least of all right away.
And, anyway, much of the hurt in his eyes is for S, more than himself and his own guilt. Lifting a hand to S's cheek, he leans in to kiss the other again. "Are you okay?" he murmurs. "It's okay. I'm okay." He hates who he was, who he became, the parts of him that coalesced into his darkest self. He hates that he was capable of this. But he hasn't yet fallen apart, and that gives him hope he won't do so at all. There's a flicker of curiosity in his throat, gaze dropping briefly again and then back up to S. He wants to look more closely, to familiarize himself with the sight, to acclimate; he wants to touch, for that matter, so that he knows, and so it won't be a surprise in the future. Until he's sure of S's comfort with it, though, he won't let himself do either.