The touch of S's hand nearly makes J start crying in earnest, and he still doesn't know how to explain what exactly he's emotional about. It's a lot of things at once, all muddled together, and none of it easy to articulate even to himself. Leaning into S's palm, he nods, finally letting himself close his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath before he tries to say anything. He doesn't want to cry or make this into a mess it doesn't have to be or worry S more than he already must.
"Yes," he says when he can, his voice soft but certain, eyes opening again. His vision is still fuzzy, and he lifts a hand to wipe his eyes, sniffling. "Is it..." He wavers, unsure how to put this. The thing is, it's a question he doesn't think he needs to ask, because S is always kinder to him than he is to himself. But he wants to, wants to get the words out of his head. "What I did... it's always going to be..." He pulls a face. "Hard for me. That sounds selfish. But it is, so I don't want to sound like I'm making it a small thing when it isn't. I just... I really thought I did more. And it's... a — a relief?" It's such a strange word to apply to something so horrible, but he can't help the truth of it. Part of this, the reason his breath is hitching, his cheeks hot, is how overwhelming the relief is, mixed in with everything else. "I didn't do that. And you're here and alive and I — I was worried I'd never..." He huffs, frustrated by his own wobbly voice and inability to express himself right.
"That this would be too much or I wouldn't get to see you again or that I'd be wrong and break down again, but it's fine," he says, a little bewildered. It's not like he loves how the scars look — there's too much bound up in that history for them to be particularly appealing in that regard — but they don't bother him now as much as he worried they might. Maybe it's because he's trying to make himself see things this way, but right now, they're reassuring. He was right, he thinks, to say they're proof S lived. Blinking hard against his tears, he glances up at S through damp lashes. "Is it possible," he asks, faintly wry, "that I overreacted before?"
He knows it's more than possible. What he doesn't know is if he's making even the slightest bit of sense right now. Fingers wandering again, he grazes one of the smaller, rougher scars, shaking his head slightly. It's strangely fascinating, in an absolutely awful way, and at the same time, he finds himself thinking that even this one seems more healed now. Time keeps moving. They've had so much more time than he thought they'd get, yet now he's more sure they'll get longer still.
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"Yes," he says when he can, his voice soft but certain, eyes opening again. His vision is still fuzzy, and he lifts a hand to wipe his eyes, sniffling. "Is it..." He wavers, unsure how to put this. The thing is, it's a question he doesn't think he needs to ask, because S is always kinder to him than he is to himself. But he wants to, wants to get the words out of his head. "What I did... it's always going to be..." He pulls a face. "Hard for me. That sounds selfish. But it is, so I don't want to sound like I'm making it a small thing when it isn't. I just... I really thought I did more. And it's... a — a relief?" It's such a strange word to apply to something so horrible, but he can't help the truth of it. Part of this, the reason his breath is hitching, his cheeks hot, is how overwhelming the relief is, mixed in with everything else. "I didn't do that. And you're here and alive and I — I was worried I'd never..." He huffs, frustrated by his own wobbly voice and inability to express himself right.
"That this would be too much or I wouldn't get to see you again or that I'd be wrong and break down again, but it's fine," he says, a little bewildered. It's not like he loves how the scars look — there's too much bound up in that history for them to be particularly appealing in that regard — but they don't bother him now as much as he worried they might. Maybe it's because he's trying to make himself see things this way, but right now, they're reassuring. He was right, he thinks, to say they're proof S lived. Blinking hard against his tears, he glances up at S through damp lashes. "Is it possible," he asks, faintly wry, "that I overreacted before?"
He knows it's more than possible. What he doesn't know is if he's making even the slightest bit of sense right now. Fingers wandering again, he grazes one of the smaller, rougher scars, shaking his head slightly. It's strangely fascinating, in an absolutely awful way, and at the same time, he finds himself thinking that even this one seems more healed now. Time keeps moving. They've had so much more time than he thought they'd get, yet now he's more sure they'll get longer still.