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July gives way to August, and with it, though the muggy weather is no less oppressive, S finds his mood lightening a little. It's strange, probably, associating summer with death. It also can't be helped. He's not half as far gone now as he was in those first couple of years, but the loss of his parents is never going to be an easy one to bear, and the days and weeks around the anniversary of their deaths are always going to hurt. Likewise strange is how grief begets grief. For that, he always feels guilty. J is here, after all, alive and well. They've had nearly a year and a half together now that they weren't supposed to have gotten, and S really is, he thinks, the happiest he's ever been. But when that loss rears its head, even happiness hurts. He never got to come out to his parents, never told them how he felt about J. They never got to see him as he is now. They weren't there when he lost the love of his life, a storm he weathered entirely on his own, and something he'll always carry with him. At times like this, it's just a little closer to the surface than usual.
He tries not to let it emerge completely, holding it at bay as best he can. It's a hard time of year, that's all, and at least J knows that already. It makes him a little quieter than usual, and a little more inclined to bring up his parents, something he doesn't typically do all that often, especially knowing that can be a difficult subject for J in different ways. Like a dark cloud slowly but inexorably passing in front of the sun, though, it starts to ease — not like the flip of a switch, exactly, but a more gradual, less noticeable change, some of it lingering still, some of it substantially better. He's still a bit distracted, but he also has a chance to start catching up on the things he didn't feel up to a couple of weeks ago. It's something.
It lets him do more with J, too. Not that he was distant before, but they're both introverted by nature, and with the weight of all that grief, he's more inclined to want to stay in with the one person who understands it, who saw him through it back then. He's tried before, more than once, to try to tell J just how grateful he is for that, how much it meant and still means to him, but there are never the words. All he can really do is attempt to make it up to him in any small ways he can, smiling faintly as J suggests plans, only for him to realize that's the one day he'll be otherwise occupied. "Ah, maybe the day after?" he offers instead, just distracted enough that he doesn't really register what he's saying until the words are out of his mouth. "I have a doctor's appointment that day."
He tries not to let it emerge completely, holding it at bay as best he can. It's a hard time of year, that's all, and at least J knows that already. It makes him a little quieter than usual, and a little more inclined to bring up his parents, something he doesn't typically do all that often, especially knowing that can be a difficult subject for J in different ways. Like a dark cloud slowly but inexorably passing in front of the sun, though, it starts to ease — not like the flip of a switch, exactly, but a more gradual, less noticeable change, some of it lingering still, some of it substantially better. He's still a bit distracted, but he also has a chance to start catching up on the things he didn't feel up to a couple of weeks ago. It's something.
It lets him do more with J, too. Not that he was distant before, but they're both introverted by nature, and with the weight of all that grief, he's more inclined to want to stay in with the one person who understands it, who saw him through it back then. He's tried before, more than once, to try to tell J just how grateful he is for that, how much it meant and still means to him, but there are never the words. All he can really do is attempt to make it up to him in any small ways he can, smiling faintly as J suggests plans, only for him to realize that's the one day he'll be otherwise occupied. "Ah, maybe the day after?" he offers instead, just distracted enough that he doesn't really register what he's saying until the words are out of his mouth. "I have a doctor's appointment that day."
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"That's what I mean, though," he settles on, a quiet, sad protest. "That was me. You saw me, and then you wanted to..." Whatever differentiation J might try to put on it, S doesn't see it that way. The scars on his chest, the damage he lives with, the doctor's appointments, those are part of his life now. If hiding that part helps ensure that J will stay alive at all, he'll do it without hesitation, no matter how much it stings sometimes, no matter what trouble it causes. It's infinitely better than the alternative. Distraught as he's been for these past few minutes, it's still nothing compared to the ice cold terror he felt when he thought J was going to take his own life again. He can't separate those things from himself, though. They're the state of his being, irreversible facts. "Of course I wouldn't want to bring that up."
Even having accidentally done so now is unnerving under all the rest of it. A lot has changed since that day, like J said, and S isn't so worked up that he can't tell that J sounds immeasurably more composed and grounded than he did then. He doesn't think anything is going to happen; it doesn't seem at all like he's woken up whatever awful impulse made J feel like that was the path forward to take. After so long spent carefully avoiding this particular topic, though, he can't help if it doesn't sit well with him.
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Sucking in a sharp breath, he hurries to add, "I'm not saying — I know you feel that way, darling. We just see it differently." He bites his lip, uncertain. "I don't remember a lot of that day. But I think, actually, for a moment... I didn't see you. I saw myself, what I'd done. I was... ah, distressed is putting it mildly, Hyunie. I didn't know yet. It wasn't real yet, you being safe and alive, only the idea that I couldn't do anything good."
He's not always convinced that's untrue. The days when he can't stop thinking all he can do is cause S pain in some form or another have dwindled, but they haven't entirely stopped. But he also has a lot more help to counteract that, including S himself. The trouble is, he doesn't know how to explain it, that all these things can be true. He was in danger then and he can't promise he won't ever be again and he can't say S's worries are wholly unfounded. At the same time, with time and distance and all he's learned and how much has changed, he thinks he's much better equipped to handle it — and that, quite possibly, no small part of his distress that day was that he was fucking exhausted on every level. He still has nights when sleep is hard won or too brief, but it's never again been that bad, not even close.
"I was very tired," he says simply. "And I didn't know I'd... I'd also... saved you." It still feels intensely difficult to say that. Knowing how S sees it helps a lot, and he knows it's made a big difference, but it's still hard to put it that way on his own, hard to drown out the voice that still wants him to know he wouldn't have had to rush to the hospital if he hadn't hurt S first. "I didn't know a lot of things. And it was so much more damage than I would have expected."
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"It's what it felt like," he points out, his voice lowering a little further, tears still falling, though at least he's quiet about it now, not unable to get a breath in like a few moments ago. This seems fair enough, he thinks, the only rebuttal he can give that wouldn't be overstepping or making decisions for J. For him, they're the same thing, and he doesn't know how else to explain it. The only other thing that crosses his mind would be to ask J how he would have felt if their positions had been reversed, and the very idea of that makes him uncomfortable. It would be too cruel, too accusatory, when it isn't as if he can fault J for his reaction at all. He gets it, at least as much as it's possible to without having dealt with everything that J has. It's just a painful thing to have been on the receiving end of.
"For me," he adds, wanting at least to be clear about that. "It's how it felt. And..." Trailing off, he sniffles. More than anything, he would like to go back to fifteen minutes ago or however long it was that they were just sitting here contentedly making plans rather than revisiting one of the most upsetting moments they've shared. As usual, though, he's gone and fucked this up, leaving him with little to do but try to say what he means without making it worse. "A lot has changed. But that hasn't. You still can't..."
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He waits, too, to see if S will finish that sentence, just in case his own assumption is wrong. When nothing more comes, he's fairly certain he understands anyway, and that hurts too. This, he thinks, is entirely his fault. He should have said something sooner, or at all, instead of letting things go on as they have. It's just that it's a difficult conversation to approach, not least when talking about what he did is still upsetting, no matter how much better things are. Every time he's wanted to talk about it has been inconvenient — a moment he didn't want ruined or somewhere too public or a time when he was already upset about something else. Bringing it up out of nowhere felt jarring, too. He should have done it anyway.
"You don't know that," he says after a moment. There's no heat or hurt in it, just a simple fact, uncertain though he is about voicing it. Keeping it back wouldn't be fair. "I haven't tried. I... I want to. I think about that a lot. We just... never talked about it. Kept putting it off, and then it always seemed like the wrong time... That's not the same thing as can't." It isn't like he can avoid it, after all, the thought of it. All the times when he should be able to undress S or when he simply ought to be — the way he stays half-clothed for sex or in the shower together, or turns away or leaves to change — they're starkly obvious to J. He's gotten used to it, but he still takes note of it, still finds himself reminded constantly of why that's the case. If anything, he thinks he probably thinks about what he did more for not having had the chance to become accustomed to the sight of it, like he's done with his own scars. He still doesn't like the writing on his arm, and he takes pains to cover them when he goes out, but he sees it often enough at home that it doesn't bother him most of the time. He's never been able to do that with S. Maybe he can't guarantee he'll react well or that it won't take time to adjust, but he's never tried.
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"It's okay," he murmurs, shaking his head again, sounding counterintuitively a little calmer now. He wants J to know that he means this; it's the least he can do. "I get it. I... I don't mind. Really." He wants, too, to say that he does know, but he's aware of how unfair that would be, exactly the shit he's trying to avoid. He just has to find other ways of conveying what he means instead. "I figured you'd bring it up if you felt like you could, and... I don't want you to feel like you have to for my sake."
It's a strange, horrible position to be in, trying to protect J from the very fact of himself, hating that he can't be shirtless around his boyfriend but not wanting to risk doing otherwise. Even if it went well, he's not sure he could bear seeing J's face in response to the scars on his chest. Keeping his shirt on may not be comfortable, and it may not keep them from thinking about it, but at least J doesn't have to look at all of that whenever they shower or have sex or get changed. There's no way to win here, but this just feels safest. And he knows that J hates when he makes all the decisions, but S doesn't feel like this is that, and he doesn't think it's just for J's sake, either. That first day he brought J back here, when they were both out of their minds and frantically trying to get their hands each other on this couch, he simply wasn't thinking when he took his shirt off. He should have been, but he wasn't. Now, though, he's not sure there's any way for him to be anything other than hyperaware of the state he's in, self-conscious in a way he isn't used to being with J, at least not when it isn't on purpose.
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"I don't feel like I have to," he says, a little wounded in spite of himself. He would have thought S would want to be done with this. "I don't want you to feel like you have to — either way. But I want to. I want to so much, I just —" He sighs, eyes closing tight. Though he's managed to stay reasonably subdued, it's still difficult. He's not sure it will ever stop being difficult.
"I knew," he continues after a moment, "that bringing it up would be upsetting. Talking about it always is, even when it's a good thing. And a lot of the time when I want to say something, we're already... getting undressed." He rolls his eyes at himself. "And I don't want to derail things, so I don't say anything, and I should, I should have. It was selfish of me. You've been so — so patient and thoughtful and I just kept quiet because I thought I could bring it up later, and then I never do." He doesn't even have a good reason for that. He just hates getting like this, agitated by the past, likely to start crying, even as he's constantly reminded of it regardless by the very fact S is half-clothed at those times. It's all he can do to keep from apologizing. The only thing that keeps him in check is knowing he couldn't handle S telling him not to.
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"It wasn't selfish," he says, a soft protest, the one thing he can say for certain right now. Considering how well it went the last time he took his shirt off in front of J, of course it wouldn't be selfish not to bring that up. It would be upsetting, as they've just gone and proved, and he can't blame J in the slightest for not wanting to see the scars that night left him with. As bad as this has been, it would doubtless be worse to go that route, a chance that simply doesn't seem worth it to take.
After all, S doesn't think he wants J to see them. He doesn't know how to say that without it sounding horrible, like it's one more way in which he's keeping J out, but it's true all the same. It isn't that he feels like he has to, either. If it were purely obligation, he would at least have grown more tired of it by now. "And it's okay that you didn't bring it up." He sniffles again, but tenuous as it might be, he does at least manage to hold onto this one thread of composure, at least for a moment more. "I don't feel like I have to. I was the one who suggested this, remember?" He summons up the barest hint of a smile, though it takes a lot of effort, and though he's not sure it will even be visible with the way they're holding onto each other. "That's not why I did bring it up. Really."
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Now that they're talking about it, he can't help the knot of stubbornness in his chest, the desire to undo what he screwed up. It was selfish, he knows it was, to put this off. Maybe they wouldn't be upset if he'd brought it up sooner. Maybe there wouldn't have been any need for S to keep his appointments secret. And, anyway, he means it emphatically, jaw set even as he continues to stroke soft circles against S's back. S has learned to live with the scars on his arm. J's never had the same opportunity. He's gotten to this point in his existence largely because of that stubbornness. He's gotten into a lot of trouble because of it, too, but he wants to trust that won't be true now. If S really doesn't want to change this, he'll have to accept that, but he won't let it be just because of him.
"I want to see you," he murmurs, "all of you." He'll never entirely get past what he did, he's sure of that, but he's learned to accept that he can't change it — most of the time at least — and to cope with the fact he did it to begin with. On his better days, he knows he was a different person in that moment, not at all lucid or rational, and that he's in better control of himself now, that S is right about J having also helped him that night. If anything, now, intent on getting this if he's permitted it, he's all the more defiant in telling himself these things. He won't hurt S again, not like that, and he won't hurt himself, not if he's prepared this time. Worrying at his lip briefly, he then adds what occurs to him next. "They wouldn't be there if you hadn't survived. Not like that. In that way, isn't it a good thing that I could see them so well? Mine were already faded and healed when I came here, like magic."
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Even hearing J say that he wants to see him doesn't make him feel relieved, just kind of sad, and the guilt he feels for the fact of that doesn't help. Frowning, he shakes his head a little, though it takes him a moment to find any words. This, too, he doesn't know how to say: that he doesn't see how there could be anything good in it with the reaction that the sight provoked in J once before. At first, he didn't mind the scars. He had no reason to, living on his own and having no particular investment in his own appearance. It isn't as if he looked good in other ways, anyway. Back then, when the wounds first healed, he was much too skinny, too, pale and dark-eyed from lack of sleep, utterly miserable in a way that made it difficult to do anything. With J, though, and given what happened before, he's convinced now that they're horrible, hideous. J might think he wants to see, but that doesn't mean it wouldn't still end badly.
"I don't know why you would want to," he mumbles, a truth that feels unavoidable. "It still looks like it did that day. They aren't any, I don't know, better."
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"I wouldn't think so," he says simply. "But I am. Aren't I?" There are so many reasons for him to want this, more than there are for him not to. He's pretty sure of that much, though he's not exactly sure S wants him to run down a list. "It's not like I don't know what's there or how it happened, even if you stay covered up. I didn't have a breakdown over how it looks." Granted, in retrospect, he thinks he might easily have had a breakdown about nearly anything. If it hadn't been the sight of S's scars, he probably would have wound up on top of S and freaked out. What they can do now would have torn him apart then. But then, it doesn't seem like pointing out how on edge he was then is doing much good, even if he thinks it was responsible for a lot of how he reacted.
Shrugging, he rests his hand at S's waist, tugging him close, though there isn't really anywhere for him to go now. "If you don't want to," he says slowly, "then... then okay." J knows his own reaction, however intense, was understandable at the time. It can't have been easy for S to get used to it either. Maybe he's more self-conscious than J thought about this, and J can't ask him just to get over that if it's the case. Maybe they can work toward that, if S wants to and is willing, but maybe he isn't. The only way they can know is to talk about it. "But if it's okay... you know I think of it anyway, right? Because I can't see your chest, it reminds me why that's so."
He's more or less grown accustomed to that. It's not like he's going to forget any time soon anyway. But if he can adjust to that constant reminder, then, he thinks, it seems just as possible he can adjust to the actual sight, given the chance.
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Even if it weren't for that, he still wouldn't have wanted to bring it up, to make J think about it in any kind of detail. It's one thing to know those scars are there, to have to think about them. It's another entirely to have to see the damage done, or at least that's how S has been thinking about it. With the subject out in the open now, he really doesn't know the best way to move forward. He hates keeping things from J; he has ever since they were young. Not mentioning his appointment ahead of time wasn't something he thought that much of, but now that they've talked about it, it would feel uncomfortably dishonest to keep J on the outside of all of it. He has no idea how to move forward from here, though, unable to shake the thought that it would only hurt J for him to have to be confronted with that so directly. Maybe he doesn't get to decide that, but he also can't disregard it. Less important but still persistent in his head, too, is the belief that there's no way J could be attracted to him with the way he looks now. It would kill the mood for sure, just like it did J's first day here.
He doesn't know, he doesn't know, stuck with every option seeming like a terrible one, shaking his head again just because it's the only thing he feels like he remembers how to do. "I don't know what I want," he admits, forlorn and sniffling again. "Thinking about it... isn't the same as seeing it. You shouldn't have to. See it. I guess it's... it's not that I don't want to, but... it just seems like so much, now."
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"It does," he agrees. They have a bad tendency, he knows, to let things sit too long. That's mostly on him. He can't fault S for being worried about how he'll handle things, even if J's said before that they both have to talk. It can't be easy, dating him. He knew that from the moment that first day here let him start to settle a little, when he promised to try. "Every time we... leave things out, it builds up so big. If there's anything else we're avoiding, we should really just have it out now and get all the crying over with."
It comes out wry, which is how he intends it. There probably will always be something. Their lives have been too complicated for anything else. Still, his voice softens. "Hyunie, I know I don't have to. I wouldn't say I want to try if it weren't true. That wouldn't be fair. And it doesn't have to be all at once, if you're... worried about how I'll react." It's fair. It hurts to think of S feeling that way, not simply because it's justified, but because it sounds to J like a lonely way to feel. Even so, he knows it's fair. If S hadn't talked him down that day and if he hadn't been too frozen with panic to do anything but stay put, he might not be here right now. For the most part, his existence hasn't felt quite that tenuous in a long time. Even in the late winter, when he felt like a numb and empty shell again, he didn't so much want to die as feel like he didn't quite exist and, occasionally, like it might be alright if he didn't. It won't be as bad as it was, he's sure of that. If he thought it would be anything like that, he would agree to keep things the way they are and stop pushing. But now that he has some idea of how S must be feeling about this, he's all the more intent on making this happen. He's left S alone too many times; he won't do it again, not when he's painfully familiar with how much it hurts to feel alone even beside the person he most loves.
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He hadn't expected this — the way the subject has come up at all, or his own reaction to it, breath still shuddering intermittently as he tries to pull himself together. Now, he can see it, how it must have weighed on him far more than he realized, until he just couldn't hold it back anymore. That, too, he feels guilty for, but he at least has the sense not to get too caught up in it now. He's too much a mess for that, his thoughts a jumbled, fuzzy tangle, more emotion than sense. It feels good, at least, to be held, even if the position is still slightly awkward, even if he still thinks he shouldn't need comforting.
"I am," he admits, apologetic even in doing so, fingers grasping at J's arm for something sturdier to hold onto. "I still... I remember how you looked at me. How..." Just the memory of it makes him feel a little queasy. For a moment, everything felt almost right again, and then it so quickly fell apart. They've come such a long way since then, but the sheer terror of those few moments left a mark as indelible as the scars themselves. S doesn't want to talk himself in circles, though. He doesn't have the energy for it, and the more he says in that regard, the less willing he is to try taking that step. Better to shift his focus, to find a reason to do it instead of yet another one not to, something to try to balance it out a little.
"I know I've said it before," he adds, quieter now, his eyes brimming with tears all over again, despite his best efforts. "But after it happened... I really wished I had you with me. It was a lot to take alone."
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But the idea of S alone, that always breaks his heart, a sharp pain in his throat as tears well up again. It feels wrong. He left S too many times before. For a while, it felt to him like the most important thing in his world was being at S's side, caring for him when he was otherwise alone. Protecting him from all the pain J ultimately left him with. "It must have been," he murmurs, voice soft to keep it from breaking. He needs a moment to hold himself together. It wouldn't be the first time they both started sobbing, but right now, he wants to stay steady. He needs S to see he can handle this. "I wish you'd had me with you too."
He wishes so fucking much. There's too much that would have to be undone to put things right in the past, and so starting fresh has been the only way, pushing forward instead of reaching back. But that doesn't keep them from their memories and their regrets and the history that shaped them. "You have me with you now, darling," he adds, still gentle but not quite so hushed. "I don't want you to be alone. Even if things don't seem important or worth it... let me?"
He can't fairly ask S to tell him everything all the time. He wouldn't, any more than he shares every passing thought of his own. It matters to him that he maintains some degree of privacy even from S. But there's a difference between keeping tiny unimportant things to himself, like not necessarily telling S everywhere he wandered or idle thoughts he's now able to recognize as more reflex than truly felt, and keeping things to himself because he thinks he has to or should or has to weigh at all whether or not it's worthwhile. Even if he understands better now why S did so, there's no good reason he should have to, and he's worked so hard to make J feel less alone, given him all the love anyone could ever hope for. It doesn't feel right for J not to have the opportunity to do the same.
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Despite everything they've just said, that's one thing he still thinks it would be better not to say. He doesn't want to make all of this worse, doesn't want to give J something else to feel guilty for. Right now, it's not really the point, anyway. That time passed soon enough after he got J's journal and found a purpose within its pages, a desperate need to exact some sort of justice keeping him going when nothing else could. Even if they would have wound up here anyway, he prefers it like this, being able to assure J that whatever he did beforehand, he saved his life, too, that he survived even when he shouldn't have. Simply contemplating taking this step would, he's sure, be infinitely more difficult if those wounds had been fatal.
"If... if it does wind up being too much," he starts, a roundabout agreement, even if he has to pause to swallow hard, "please say so, okay? I'll understand, I really will." After so long spent convinced they would never do this, it isn't something he can just throw himself wholly into at a moment's notice. He still isn't convinced that this will work. But somewhere in him is still the part of him that wanted nothing more than to have J by his side as he recovered, that's hated not being able to talk about what happened to him and what that's involved, and especially when J sounds like this, S can't bring himself to turn him down, to draw that line. He can, though, make clear that he has no expectations, that it isn't something he'll push. He couldn't bear it if he prompted the same sort of reaction again that he did the day J first got here.
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Despite a bad spell earlier this year, though, he feels so much stronger than he did when he came here. In a lot of ways, he thinks he might be almost as different from the person he was that day as he was, when he arrived, from the person he was when they moved in together. If he feels more sure of his own strength now, more capable of handling worse, it's in no small part because S was here, holding his hand, reassuring him and helping him to see the world and himself differently. They've taken back so much of their life, their happiness, things they once took for granted. There's no reason they can't try to get back these things too.
"Okay," he says. "I'll say so. Even if it's too hard in that moment and not forever, I'll tell you that." It won't be easy for him to admit, but it'll be worse if he lets himself get worked up, dragged under by his despair. "And... your chest, the scars, if it's too difficult after all, I'll say it. I'm sor— ah, I wish you didn't have to remember that." No matter how much better he's doing now, after all, and what they've overcome, it's not like he's forgotten how S looked at him that last horrible night. This may not be nearly the same thing, but he knows how hard it is to shake being looked at with horror and fear, the way he must have, even if it was all self-directed. "I really do think I can handle it, darling. I want to. I — I want every part of being with you."
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The thought alone makes his breath catch, but he nods, slight, just enough to be visible, still leaning into J. This is what he wished he'd had then, J with his arms around him, helping him to weather that storm. Though the damage has healed, even with the scars visible still, maybe he can actually get a little of that now. Of course, the thought of that feels horribly selfish, a burden he shouldn't lay on J's shoulders, but that doesn't mean they can't find some middle ground. Even having been so sure that it was the right thing simply to keep this subject buried, it's been hard at times, not being able to talk about it at all, especially with the person closest to him, the one he's spent so long telling just about everything.
"Okay," he murmurs, almost inaudibly quiet, still sounding fairly miserable. He means it, though, holding onto J as if to try to convey as much, curled up small in his arms. "If you think so, then... okay."
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It's hard to feel anything else when S is like this. All J wants is to make it go away, anything that hurts S, and he can't. In the end, after all, he's the cause of it now — the reason S was injured, the reason S was alone, the reason he thought the sight of himself cause for despair. He just has to try again to content himself with being the one who soothes that hurt, if he can.
"If you think so, too," he says. "If it's too much for you, that's it, okay?" It's not entirely the same, but it's close enough he can't help thinking again of his birthday last year, the careful process of moving past his fear of how S would look at him. It wasn't nearly as difficult as he would have feared, and, in the end, all they'd really needed was to ease into the first time in order to reclaim that part of their sex life. This might take a little more getting used to — for both of them — but it's a relief they'll try. The idea of S staying dressed the rest of their lives because he thinks the sight of himself would hurt J — he should have spoken up sooner.
With a small, soft sound, he nuzzles into S's hair. His legs are starting to hurt, tucked under him at this odd angle, but he's reluctant to try and stand. For one thing, he's not sure they'd hold him yet. More importantly, he doesn't want to let S go. "I love you so much," he murmurs. "I never, never thought you were anything but beautiful, darling. I thought I was the ugly one. Inside. You taught me better." He's hardly a saint, and some part of him remains disturbed and uncertain by the idea he could be good in any way, given what he did, that someone who did such terrible things might not be all bad. In some ways, it was more comfortable to think that he'd become a monster, that he couldn't possibly be who he was. Even with that being true, he's not sure he could have lived this long if he still believed that. If he still felt as irredeemable as he did in that moment, it would break him. It's only having S in his life that's let him see that even the worst parts of him are just part of him.
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"I'm not," he protests, muffled against his knees. The sight of the scars is horrible, but he doesn't want to say that. J put two of them there, after all, and the last thing he wants is for J to feel like he's the cause of this. S knows far too well that when J plunged a knife into his chest, then drove him through the snow to the hospital, he couldn't have been thinking about how it would alter his appearance. That was never the point.
It isn't now, either, hardly the sole or even primary reason S has been reluctant to want to change the way they've been doing things. Still, the insecurity is there, set aside only because it's difficult to hear J say something like that and not respond to the rest of it. Again and again, he tells himself this wasn't meant to be about him, and somehow he keeps drawing the focus anyway. He can at least try to shift it back now to J in some capacity.
"But I never thought you were anything else, either," he adds, a little quieter now, but clearer, too, these words deliberate. S is far too out of sorts to know if he's actually making sense, but he figures that J will probably understand what he means regardless. Even when J was gaunt and pale that last day in Seoul, even covered in ash and with scars on his arm, even reading every sickening detail in J's notebook, S never saw him as anything but beautiful. "I still don't. I never will."
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"Well, you're the only one," he says, trying not to let that sound as dire as it feels. He wants to believe that his mother felt — feels — the same, but in her absence, he'll never be sure or able to shake the part of him afraid it isn't true. Letting out a shuddering sigh, trying to resist the tears starting to well up, he shakes his head. "You are. To me, you are. You can't argue with me on this. I won't give in."
Still, he senses it's more than that. The way S tucks into himself, the way his voice made J's heart ache, it's a hurt that runs deep, and it appalls J to think he didn't see it all this time. If he'd had any idea this was the case — as, at least, he thinks it is — he would have found his courage sooner. "Darling," he murmurs, soft and gentle, "did you think I — I thought anything different?" Even though it stings to imagine that, he also has an uncomfortable understanding of how easy it is to persuade himself of things that aren't true, that he knows aren't true. He still hates the idea of S dealing with that disconnect or feeling — feeling like what? J searches for it in his head, uncertain. Ugly? Unappealing? That J would think so? Tangled up as that must be in his keeping covered up, it's no wonder he wouldn't have said anything, but J wishes desperately that he had.
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At any other time, S would say something to that extent. Instead, now, jaw trembling slightly with the effort it takes not to fall apart completely again, he can only try his best to answer J's question, wanting if nothing else to assure him that the last part isn't true. "No," he allows, sounding just deeply fucking sad. He knows that, for J, it hasn't been about his attractiveness, or lack thereof. He knows, too, that J wouldn't say such things to him if he didn't mean them. The problem lies with him, and with what he hasn't let J see again. Of course he doesn't think J thought anything different, but that doesn't mean J wouldn't.
"It's me," he says, fumbling to try to explain it even as he doesn't want to talk about it at all. He hardly understands how they even got to this subject. They're here now, though, and considering that it was his holding something back that ruined the mood in the first place, the least he can do is try to be honest now. "You might not think anything different, but I do." At least hunched over his legs like this, he feels somewhat shielded, a little less laid bare by all these truths and in no position to take the step that they've just talked about taking. "It's not like I can blame you. For reacting like you did. It looks horrible. I don't know why you'd want to — to look at me like that."
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That's the thing, he tells himself. It's only for now. He'll never forgive himself entirely, but he's begun to see that, with time, he can still adjust to nearly anything. He spent his life adapting to survive, long before he graduated high school, and he'll keep on doing so for whatever time he has. He just needs to have something to adapt to, and he can't do that off of silence.
"Because you're you," he says, when he finds his voice again. "Because I like looking at you. Because it's part of life, because, even when I'm mostly used to it, there are still times when I — when you'd normally undress, but you don't, and I have to remember it's because of me, and the only — the only visual I have is that time. And I reacted —" This time, he doesn't trouble holding back his sigh. "Sihyun-ah, it wasn't because I thought it was ugly or you were. It really wasn't. I just hated — I hate — how badly I hurt you, that I... that I struck you that many times." Though he's tried hard to keep his voice even, to be the calming one here, he doesn't quite manage it for a moment, words wavering before he gets himself back on track. Stabbed. Not struck, stabbed. It feels like too much to say even now. "But I got used to my arm because I got to see it all the time."
It might be too many reasons, he thinks, even if they're all true. He's not even sure how much of it S will agree with or process or believe. For himself, the difference between reacting to the knowledge of what he did and reacting to the sight of it is a reasonably big one, but he wasn't on the receiving end of it. He can't ask S not to have been hurt by it. He can't, for that matter, ask him to move on. All he can do is try to ease the pain he caused, his guilt for it less important than how badly it's affected S. If he apologizes, he knows, it's likely S will shut down; that's probably the last thing he wants, even if J thinks it would be deserved.
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So, of course, what comes out first is completely unintentional. "Twice," he nearly whispers, more to himself than to J. "It was twice." He knows all of those messy, gory details — how the stab wounds punctured his left lung and his heart, how close he was to dead when he got to the hospital, how for a minute or so, he was dead, flatlining on the operating table before they managed to bring him back. Over and over, he was told how lucky he was. For a long while there, it was luck he didn't want, survival feeling more like a curse than a blessing.
At least he hasn't gone and said that. It's stupid, probably, to be thinking about the secrets he should still keep when his doing so was what prompted all of this in the first place, but he can only imagine how much that would hurt J to hear. It wouldn't be worth it, not when he's long since gotten past that point. This is already messy enough as it is, a tiny sigh escaping him in turn before he tries again to say what he means.
"And I know that wasn't why. I do," he insists, quiet and shaky though his voice is. "I know you didn't think that." The whole thing happened so quickly, a transition so abrupt that it left him reeling, that he's not sure J would even have been able to think it. Neither of them was exactly at their most clear-headed at the time. Ultimately, the cause hasn't mattered when the effect was the same, when he still looks the same way. "That's not even why... I haven't wanted to try that again. It's just there. In my head, whenever I see myself. "
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"It looked like more," he mumbles, then swallows hard, tries to makes his throat feel a little less tight. In that instant, it seemed to him like he must have gone even madder than he'd thought. That isn't really the point right now, though. Closing his eyes, he tries to breathe evenly, tries not to blurt out any other half-formed thought. He makes himself turn those words over in his head, even though they sting. It can't be any worse than the things S has borne for him; they do this together, for each other, and he can handle it. And, besides, if it really was less than he'd come to fear, maybe it won't be quite so shocking when he's not already out of his mind and suicidal.
"I know how that feels," he settles on after a moment, "I think. I... for a long time, I didn't want to look in a mirror at all. I think I was scared of who I'd see. It wasn't... physical like that, but... maybe that's why it was so bad. When I did see myself, I knew I didn't look much different, but inside..." He sighs, shrugging the arm not around S. "I didn't know how to see it differently for a long time. The only reason I can now is because you saw me differently first." It's when he tries to keep things to himself that he really starts to fall apart. S may not be unstable like J is or has been, but J has to believe it would help him, too, being able to share things and to let J love him when he can't see his own beauty. "I can't change what you see. I can't force you to — to feel what I say is true. But maybe I could... do what you do. Show you what I see instead."
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Probably he should have. There is, he thinks, something deeply ironic in the fact that this started because of him not telling J something, when the times he's let himself think about it, he's hated feeling like he couldn't talk about it. Keeping things from J has felt unnatural for practically all the time they've known each other, and this is something so big, a whole several months of his life that he hasn't been able to bring up. Even now, he doubts it would do any good to get into the details.
Most of them, anyway. Everything J has said is a lot to take in, especially when he feels like this, still so shaken, but the quiet surprise in J telling him it looked like more sticks in his head over the rest of it. At least getting that out of the way seems simpler than all the rest of it. "Of course it did," he says, likewise quiet, not having it in him to look at J as he says this. "Look like more. I had surgery." That scar is the worst of them, too, and the hardest for him to look at, a prominent line down the center of his chest. Already he half-expects J to say that it makes no difference, given that he wouldn't have needed surgery in the first place had it not been for the stab wounds, but the very fucking least he can do is provide clarification.
That part is simpler than the rest of it, though it probably shouldn't be. S knows it just makes sense, and that he can't deny something that he's been so insistent about offering. He doesn't want to need it, doesn't want to make J have to deal with this, but it's too late to take it back now. Breath catching, shuddering, he makes himself give a slight nod, eyes shut tight as if that will hold back more tears. It doesn't. "Maybe," he allows. "Maybe you could."
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