J closes his eyes, a little overwhelmed. He is, he thinks, grateful, at least that S understands things better now than he did before. It helps. It just hurts, too, realizing there are things S knows that he never should have had to, that he only knows because J has to, and he never wanted to. Even now, when he's in a decent patch of time where things aren't, generally, too awful, it makes him ache, the unfairness of it. No matter how much better things get, it's always there, the possibility, the threat, of the floor dropping out from under him. For that matter, it feels less possible than inevitable. It sucks a little of the contentedness from his otherwise peaceful days, such as they are. At moments like this, it just makes him bitterly sad. There's so much they'll never get away from. His madness is wound up in that inextricably, but it feels like too much of a burden to have to be this way still.
He wants to apologize for that being the case, and he wants to get angry, too, that it is. He did terrible things, but the way he's felt, he's felt for years. Everything started to crumble beneath him long before he hurt anyone, at least physically. Whatever punishment he might deserve for his crimes, this started well before that, when he had already suffered needlessly for too long. It's hard to untangle what he deserves from what he doesn't. All he's really sure of is that it's exhausting and it hurts.
And that S is right. Letting out another unsteady breath, he nods, still tracing idle designs against S's back. The part he doesn't want to say is how much that's true in general, not just in this instance, how he's become aware over the months of that. The less he says about what's wrong, the worse it is. He can't let that happen here, with this. He faltered in the winter, not quite seeing it until it was too late. He won't let himself do that again. At least, he'll try. He won't put S through that.
"Those reasons aren't going anywhere," he says softly. "I'd have to be even crazier to pretend otherwise." He remembers a little of that first day, recalls it in bits and pieces, and he knows a taste of how it felt then, how sure he was he couldn't live with all of this — or, rather, that he wouldn't, that it would be agony to go on in the knowledge of all he'd done and the pain he'd already carried with him. That it wouldn't be worth the pain of it. He was wrong about it not being worth it, but much of what was true then is true now. It's only life with S and the things he's learned since then that make it possible for him to be here still. Without all that, he thinks, he would have fallen entirely apart long ago. Again.
"I won't try to," he adds, voice still low, thinking aloud even as he overthinks in his head. "But I do think it'll mostly be okay. Right now, it's fine. And when it isn't... well, then you can just... hold me a little and remind me that some of that is because I got you to the hospital fast enough." His voice turns wry, a little embarrassed. It feels strangely self-aggrandizing even now to treat what he did as even vaguely heroic, though he's learned to accept that his actions that night both nearly killed S and saved him. "Or, if you need, I can hold you and remind you... whatever you need. How ridiculously in love with you I am."
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He wants to apologize for that being the case, and he wants to get angry, too, that it is. He did terrible things, but the way he's felt, he's felt for years. Everything started to crumble beneath him long before he hurt anyone, at least physically. Whatever punishment he might deserve for his crimes, this started well before that, when he had already suffered needlessly for too long. It's hard to untangle what he deserves from what he doesn't. All he's really sure of is that it's exhausting and it hurts.
And that S is right. Letting out another unsteady breath, he nods, still tracing idle designs against S's back. The part he doesn't want to say is how much that's true in general, not just in this instance, how he's become aware over the months of that. The less he says about what's wrong, the worse it is. He can't let that happen here, with this. He faltered in the winter, not quite seeing it until it was too late. He won't let himself do that again. At least, he'll try. He won't put S through that.
"Those reasons aren't going anywhere," he says softly. "I'd have to be even crazier to pretend otherwise." He remembers a little of that first day, recalls it in bits and pieces, and he knows a taste of how it felt then, how sure he was he couldn't live with all of this — or, rather, that he wouldn't, that it would be agony to go on in the knowledge of all he'd done and the pain he'd already carried with him. That it wouldn't be worth the pain of it. He was wrong about it not being worth it, but much of what was true then is true now. It's only life with S and the things he's learned since then that make it possible for him to be here still. Without all that, he thinks, he would have fallen entirely apart long ago. Again.
"I won't try to," he adds, voice still low, thinking aloud even as he overthinks in his head. "But I do think it'll mostly be okay. Right now, it's fine. And when it isn't... well, then you can just... hold me a little and remind me that some of that is because I got you to the hospital fast enough." His voice turns wry, a little embarrassed. It feels strangely self-aggrandizing even now to treat what he did as even vaguely heroic, though he's learned to accept that his actions that night both nearly killed S and saved him. "Or, if you need, I can hold you and remind you... whatever you need. How ridiculously in love with you I am."