He should have said something, S realizes belatedly, but that's half the problem here. He doesn't know how to talk about this. Just in the span of this conversation, he's said more about it than he ever has, and to keep going would be to run the risk of convincing himself not to go ahead with it after all. At least, if nothing else, he thinks he's probably cried himself out, if only for the time being. He's still flushed and tear-streaked and sniffly, his breath still catching intermittently, but he's not actually crying anymore, which is probably the only thing that would make this even more mortifying. It shouldn't be. He's been shirtless in front of J more times in his life than he would be able to count — hundreds if not thousands, something he didn't used to think twice about even before they were in a relationship. They would have had a hard time sharing a studio apartment with each other if he'd been hung up on some ridiculous idea of modesty.
But that was before — before stabbings and open-heart surgery, before J wound up suicidal at the sight of him, before a year and a half of carefully avoiding letting J see his chest at all. A shiver runs through S now, not from any chill in the apartment but simply from nerves, the weight of J's gaze even heavier than usual even with S avoiding meeting his eyes. Only the hand on his cheek gets him to look at J again, and he's cautious when he does, afraid of what he'll see there. He didn't want J to have to see him like this. Despite all he said about not realizing how much it bothered him or how hard it was to hold it back, there's still a part of him that thinks it would have been easier, better, never to address this at all. They have, though, and they're here, and he's terrified, even hearing J say that he's okay.
He hates the unease he feels and the desperation for reassurance, hates how badly he wants comfort when part of him is still convinced he should be the one giving it. He had none, though, when this first happened, and while he was aware of how awful it was, how lonely he felt, how much he wished he had J or his parents with him, it was one more thing he had to push down and keep buried. It's not as if there was anything to be done about it. Of course he craves that comfort now.
"I'm okay," he answers, though he sounds a little like he's trying to convince himself of that and feels anything but. He doesn't know how to explain it. he does, though, remember the first time he brought J back here, how he tried to soothe J while J fell into a panic and failed miserably at it. Taking that approach again, focusing purely on the physical facts of it, seems like the easiest approach right now, however willfully obtuse it might make him. "I'm okay. Really, I... I am. There haven't been any complications or anything. No problems since. It looks bad, but..."
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But that was before — before stabbings and open-heart surgery, before J wound up suicidal at the sight of him, before a year and a half of carefully avoiding letting J see his chest at all. A shiver runs through S now, not from any chill in the apartment but simply from nerves, the weight of J's gaze even heavier than usual even with S avoiding meeting his eyes. Only the hand on his cheek gets him to look at J again, and he's cautious when he does, afraid of what he'll see there. He didn't want J to have to see him like this. Despite all he said about not realizing how much it bothered him or how hard it was to hold it back, there's still a part of him that thinks it would have been easier, better, never to address this at all. They have, though, and they're here, and he's terrified, even hearing J say that he's okay.
He hates the unease he feels and the desperation for reassurance, hates how badly he wants comfort when part of him is still convinced he should be the one giving it. He had none, though, when this first happened, and while he was aware of how awful it was, how lonely he felt, how much he wished he had J or his parents with him, it was one more thing he had to push down and keep buried. It's not as if there was anything to be done about it. Of course he craves that comfort now.
"I'm okay," he answers, though he sounds a little like he's trying to convince himself of that and feels anything but. He doesn't know how to explain it. he does, though, remember the first time he brought J back here, how he tried to soothe J while J fell into a panic and failed miserably at it. Taking that approach again, focusing purely on the physical facts of it, seems like the easiest approach right now, however willfully obtuse it might make him. "I'm okay. Really, I... I am. There haven't been any complications or anything. No problems since. It looks bad, but..."