J scoffs, wry and fond and tired. "Of course it does," he says dryly. "I feel like an idiot every time it happens to me. I hate it. I keep thinking I shouldn't be like that anymore, I should be able to cope better, but I can't help it." It feels a little awkward to admit these things — not the part about how stupid he feels for getting upset when he does, because that's obvious and easy enough to say. He says as much when it happens, too, embarrassed and overwhelmed. It's the rest of it that's strange and difficult. He's not used to granting himself any grace. "But it's not, is it? I have reasons to be upset. Even when they don't make sense, I have reasons. I'm not doing it for fun. Neither are you. You can fall apart now and then."

He's here, after all, to hold S together through it and help patch him back up, the way S has always done for him. As much as he feels horrible afterward for the way he behaves and reacts, it's a bit easier — if also more embarrassing — because S is at his side. He just hopes he can offer a little of the same comfort.

"You had reasons too," he adds after a moment, "for not saying anything. I wish it wasn't like that, but... you can't be sure. I'm..." He hesitates, unsure which of the dozen unflattering possibilities to choose. "Volatile. I'm — I'm trying, I really am, but you can't know how I'd react."