J closes his eyes at the press of S's lips, feeling a little shaky for it, as if, yet again, the promise of comfort is what makes it hardest to hold himself together. He's doing remarkably well, he thinks. Emotional though he is, he hasn't fallen apart. After how poorly he reacted initially, he's trying hard to be more measured in his responses, both honest and still trying to keep from getting too worked up.

Intentions are well and good, but they don't stop him from continuing to tear up, or the ache in his heart listening to S. Blindly, he reaches his other hand for S's, the one at S's chest shifting up to his cheek instead. He wants, always, to apologize for all of that. They've both grown about as accustomed as it's possible to be with the awful fact of J having tried to kill S. That doesn't diminish the misery he feels, thinking of S alone in the aftermath. It doesn't make him wish any less desperately that he'd been there after all, though it makes no sense, to have taken care of S while he recovered.

"Darling," he murmurs, heartache only slightly soothed by the fact he's here now. It isn't the same. He still hopes to do some good, but he can't undo the past, and it's hard to talk around the tightness and the apologies in his throat. Sniffling, he shakes his head. "It really doesn't look bad. I — I don't know if I can make you believe that, but it's true. I think it is." He shrugs, reminding himself that, when it comes to this, beyond his not losing his mind at the sight, his opinion doesn't matter all that much. Still, his opinion is all he has to offer when, as he said, he can't change S's just by force of will. "I wish I could make you see how I see you. Even this, it's... you survived so much. I didn't get to be there to help you —" His voice shakes despite himself and he swallows hard, frowning. "But you did. And it's a bit reassuring that they aren't as faded as mine, because that proves you did."