Perhaps ironically, when he's just been thinking about how much things have changed for them, S feels so painfully young when he hears that, like they're both teenagers again, him lost in the grief of losing his parents, the two of them fumbling their way through the beginning of a relationship. It's just an extreme example of what he's always thought but has never figured out how to put into words. Their circumstances have changed, and they have, too. Underneath, though, they're still them in all the ways that count. The shape of each of them has changed, but the way they fit together hasn't. It's so familiar, and so sweet the way J rambles, that by the time he finishes speaking, S is fighting back tears again, and only partially because of what he actually says, though that certainly does play a part. Sniffling, the slightest bit petulant, he gives J's chest a tiny shove with the hand not clasping his. There's no weight or effort behind it, rendering it utterly ineffectual — he doesn't actually want J to move at all — but it gives him some means of feigned protest, which is what he really wants.
"Ah, you'll make me cry again," he says through a pout, the words half-muffled, though this, too, is more of a token protest than anything else. Guilty as he might feel for needing to be held and comforted like this, it's nice, too; it's what he wanted so much during those months he was alone, in the aftermath of the incident that left him with these scars in the first place. The hard thing is letting himself have that. Another apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows J would just tell him again not to apologize, so he holds it back on that basis alone. At least that's something.
There's enough else he should probably respond to there, anyway, even if it takes him a few moments to determine how to do so, his head a mess and emotions still high. It would be too easy, too, to focus only on what J has said about himself, all of which is important but would also be deliberately skirting the subject at hand on his part. He hates, too, that J has had to learn all of those things, and he's relieved that J has, especially with what he was reminded of earlier. Hell, just feeling him here, warm and solid and safe, is more relieving than S could ever find the words for. Shifting a little, he leans into J, curled forward enough that he can rest his head against J's chest, hearing his heartbeat, as steady and sure as ever. At least, whatever happens, there's this. Somehow, that makes it easier to decide what to say.
"I don't want to stay all covered up forever," he admits, his voice wavering a little again. He thought he did. He would, at least, have been alright with it, and maybe if they'd never broached the subject, it would still have been easy. Now that they're here, though, he can't pretend otherwise and he can't lie about it. "I — I hate hiding things from you. Even when we were kids, I hated it." Breathing in as deeply as he can, he makes a small, soft sound, not so much out of frustration as reluctance. "But you have to tell me if it ever is too much, or too hard, or... you just really don't like looking at it, or anything. Please. I don't want to make anything worse."
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"Ah, you'll make me cry again," he says through a pout, the words half-muffled, though this, too, is more of a token protest than anything else. Guilty as he might feel for needing to be held and comforted like this, it's nice, too; it's what he wanted so much during those months he was alone, in the aftermath of the incident that left him with these scars in the first place. The hard thing is letting himself have that. Another apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows J would just tell him again not to apologize, so he holds it back on that basis alone. At least that's something.
There's enough else he should probably respond to there, anyway, even if it takes him a few moments to determine how to do so, his head a mess and emotions still high. It would be too easy, too, to focus only on what J has said about himself, all of which is important but would also be deliberately skirting the subject at hand on his part. He hates, too, that J has had to learn all of those things, and he's relieved that J has, especially with what he was reminded of earlier. Hell, just feeling him here, warm and solid and safe, is more relieving than S could ever find the words for. Shifting a little, he leans into J, curled forward enough that he can rest his head against J's chest, hearing his heartbeat, as steady and sure as ever. At least, whatever happens, there's this. Somehow, that makes it easier to decide what to say.
"I don't want to stay all covered up forever," he admits, his voice wavering a little again. He thought he did. He would, at least, have been alright with it, and maybe if they'd never broached the subject, it would still have been easy. Now that they're here, though, he can't pretend otherwise and he can't lie about it. "I — I hate hiding things from you. Even when we were kids, I hated it." Breathing in as deeply as he can, he makes a small, soft sound, not so much out of frustration as reluctance. "But you have to tell me if it ever is too much, or too hard, or... you just really don't like looking at it, or anything. Please. I don't want to make anything worse."