Again, S feels a little surge of guilt, muted but undeniably present. Back then, at the time, he hadn't wanted to have survived it. Having to live with all of that, alone, was a burden he never would have asked for. He made it worthwhile in the end, or he thinks he did. He got some sort of justice for J, and, here, he's been able to assure J that not only did he survive, but he did so only because of J's intervention, getting him to help just in time despite all the risks in doing so. Even now, though, it's hard for him to see the scars he's left with as reassuring in any way. They might prove that he survived all of that, but they prove, too, that there was all of that for him to survive in the first place. J seems more alright with the sight of them now than S is himself, but S still thinks that he shouldn't have to be faced with them now.
Largely at a loss though he might be, the one thing he does know how to do is grasp J's hand in turn, fingers curling steady and determined around his boyfriend's. It doesn't change all those months he was alone, the span of time when there were bandages to change and far worse-looking wounds than these underneath, but it means the world and makes a world of difference that J is here with him now. S may not really know how to talk about this, and may not want to need comfort over it, but he can at least make sure J knows that much. It's not something he could ever take for granted, not something he'll ever be anything less than grateful for.
"You sound like me," he murmurs, again as close as he can get to teasing under the circumstances, which isn't very. "That's supposed to be my line. I wish I could make you see how I see you." That's beside the point right now, really, but it does buy him a moment's time to try to figure out what to say. He still doesn't think he should — has promised himself he never will — admit that survival in those months felt like something he was cursed with, not something he achieved. It's just hard, impossible, not to think about it from time to time, with a subject like this at hand. Finally, shrugging, he lets out a tiny sigh. "I believe you. That you don't think it looks bad. I do. I guess it just... started to feel easier, keeping it put away. Not having to be seen like this."
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Largely at a loss though he might be, the one thing he does know how to do is grasp J's hand in turn, fingers curling steady and determined around his boyfriend's. It doesn't change all those months he was alone, the span of time when there were bandages to change and far worse-looking wounds than these underneath, but it means the world and makes a world of difference that J is here with him now. S may not really know how to talk about this, and may not want to need comfort over it, but he can at least make sure J knows that much. It's not something he could ever take for granted, not something he'll ever be anything less than grateful for.
"You sound like me," he murmurs, again as close as he can get to teasing under the circumstances, which isn't very. "That's supposed to be my line. I wish I could make you see how I see you." That's beside the point right now, really, but it does buy him a moment's time to try to figure out what to say. He still doesn't think he should — has promised himself he never will — admit that survival in those months felt like something he was cursed with, not something he achieved. It's just hard, impossible, not to think about it from time to time, with a subject like this at hand. Finally, shrugging, he lets out a tiny sigh. "I believe you. That you don't think it looks bad. I do. I guess it just... started to feel easier, keeping it put away. Not having to be seen like this."