hismelody | (no subject)

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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."

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When they were younger, J found it intensely helpful to hear that S felt many of the same things he did. When he grew older and his mind started to change, it was the certainty that no one reasonable could think and feel as he did that made him feel so alone, so unable to speak. The trouble is, because he knows his own mind to be unreliable and his understanding of the world to be different from most, he's not at all sure how useful it is to understand what S feels on any level. Maybe it doesn't matter, he tells himself. Even if what S feels isn't normal either, then at least they'd be odd together. At least he'd feel less alone in it. J just feels uneasy at the idea that S might have to endure any of the things he's had to. But this is normal, he tells himself. It has to be. He's done that before, well before his thoughts grew strange.

"I've done that," he says, lifting a hand to comb his fingers through S's hair. "A lot, really. It's... scary, I think, how much we can hide from ourselves." It's ruined him in all kinds of ways, not quite knowing what he hides from himself. He can't help thinking that, in a roundabout way, that's exactly what got them into this whole mess. If he'd been a bit more honest with himself — if he hadn't let himself hide the truth from himself of how much he craved that connection to his father — that would have been one thing fewer for the professor to use against them both. If he could have acknowledged it, he might have been able to steel himself against it, or to hear S better, more honestly.

It's useless to think about now. There are bigger lies he's told both to him and to S, and he's afraid to find out how many he's still telling. What's done is done.

"You know now," he murmurs. "And so do I. That's a start."

It's a start. However awful and huge this has felt, S knows that's all it is. They still haven't acted on it, after all; he hasn't shown J the scars under his shirt, or talked about the wounds or his recovery from them in any kind of detail. Even trying to take to heart what J has told him, it still scares him a little, the idea that it might prove to be too much after all, the damage that might do. It won't be like it was that first day, he does believe that, and it won't be because of him, which he's trying to believe, but it still might be bad. Knowing would be better than not knowing, freeing him of the need to have to guess and hide, but there's safety, too, in leaving it unaddressed, staving off whatever reaction might come, not having to see the way J looks at him change.

Still, this is something, a better place to be than they were in before, however awful he feels. He meant it when he said that he hated feeling like he couldn't talk about it at all. Some of it, he wasn't aware of — how bothered he was, for one, and how afraid — but he found himself thinking on more than one occasion that it felt wrong not to be able to talk about that chapter of his life at all. Given what brought it about, it will never be easy, but he would so much rather talk to J than not. Keeping anything back from him has always felt wrong. That's probably part of why he didn't let himself see what he was doing that way.

"Yeah," he agrees, still frowning a little, though he leans his forehead against J's, savoring the gentle brush of fingers through his hair. Such simple gestures were exactly what he so badly longed for back then — someone to hold his hand or stroke his hair, to stay at his side when he tried to make himself eat something or when he was too grief-ridden and tired even to get out of bed. He thought losing his parents the way he did was the worst thing that could happen to him, but at least he had that then, J with him every step of the way. At least he can have a little of that now. "I don't know what comes next, but it's a start."

"I don't know either," J says. He could make something up, but he doubts that would be helpful. The only way they get through this, really, and everything else in their lives, is together. Besides, he got upset in the first place because the idea of being left out, the choice made for him, was too much, veering too close to his old fear of being seen as unable to care for himself. He's been handling that someone better lately, because they've talked things through more, but having it come out of nowhere shocked him. He's not going to make decisions for S in turn, not when it's not necessary for some reason. "Whatever we want to come next, I guess. You can talk to me about... whatever. Anything you want to say."

Now that they've broached the subject of his actually seeing S's scars again, much more prepared and stable this time, though for a relative value of both, he wants to make it happen. He just also wants to do it on S's time. Pushing him will make it worse for both of them, the worst possible way to handle it. A gentle nudge might do, but no more.

And, too, there's a part of J that hopes it will go well enough that they can actually, if not have sex, at least mess around with S shirtless, not even so much because J thinks about sex an awful lot, but because hearing S like this makes him want fiercely to show S precisely how beautiful J really thinks he is. More than that, he wants to make S feel it. He can't change how S sees himself, he knows, but he can show him how he's seen, and maybe that will make a difference. It does for J.

"I do still want to see," he adds finally, soft. "I think... it might be good for me? But only when you feel... as ready as you think you can." He knows better than to suggest S will ever be fully ready. Some things have to be done well before all preparation is done, or they'll never happen. He has a hazy memory of his own fear at showing S his scars that first day, and S isn't the one who caused those. He can't expect S to be giddy to show off a sight that, previously, pushed J into a panicked self-reflective spiral that made him want to die. Again. All he can really do is, without quite thinking of it, say the things he wishes he'd heard sooner. "It doesn't have to be now or even today or tomorrow. And you don't have to say everything today either. I'll be here when you're ready."

Just like so much else has, J's words take him by surprise. S would never have thought of it that way himself, that it might actually be good for J; he's spent all this time far too convinced of the opposite even to entertain the possibility. Even now, he has his doubts, stemming partly from the fear that's stayed with him since that first day and partly, he thinks, from not wanting to get his hopes up in case this does go badly. He knows better than to say so, though, not wanting to seem yet again like he's deciding what would be best for J. This is already more than he would have expected, anyway. The more time passed without J bringing it up, the more S came to believe that he never would, that things would just stay the way they were. He told himself he was fine with that. He was fine with it. He just didn't know how much hurt was alongside it, buried too deep to acknowledge.

Considered from that perspective, maybe it would be good for him, too. S doesn't really think so, but it's not impossible. At least that, too, would be a start. At least he wouldn't have to try to keep himself so hidden. He would settle just for being able to change his fucking shirt without having to turn away or leave the room. Even that, he knows, isn't guaranteed. None of it is. They might try it and one or both of them decide it's too much after all. Still, he thought the same thing about having sex facing each other with J on top of him, and was wonderfully proven wrong when they stumbled over that particular hurdle. Maybe it will be the same now. If nothing else, there's a chance of it.

Reassuring as it is to have J so gently leave the choice with him, it's a little overwhelming, too. S doesn't know what he wants or what would be best. Just thinking about it, his instinct is to push it aside even now. It's that realization that makes his decision for him. Probably it's a bad one, but there's not really a good option with a subject so fraught.

"I... I think if I wait... then I might never do it," he admits, ducking his head as best he can without pulling away. "I'd just want to put it aside again." He sniffles. Already a tear-streaked mess, he doubts this kind of vulnerability will make him feel any better, but going back to holding onto this is all but guaranteed only to make him feel worse, especially after all they've just said. "Would that be okay? If I just... do it?"

Despite S's uncertainty, J smiles, soft and fond and faintly amused. It's logic he's given countless time for his own bravado, charging forward for fear he'd otherwise turn back. It's for the best, too. For as confident as he's let himself sound, it's still a big thing to face. He might lose his nerve, too, if he had to wait. Now that he's set his mind to this, they should probably go ahead and do it.

"That would be okay," he agrees softly, leaning close to try and kiss S's cheek. For a moment, he considers suggesting that he be the one to handle it. If he does the unbuttoning, he can pause as needed. But he knows S, knows how much he likely needs control of this moment. He can't take that from him. Leaning his head against S's, he sighs. "I love you. And you trust me, darling. So trust that, if I need... a moment or to stop or... I will say so. And I wouldn't say this if I didn't believe it. I wouldn't do that to you."

S knows this. J is sure he does. It still awes him to know that S does, because there's a long list of reasons why S shouldn't trust him or believe him at all. Sitting here, though, cradling him close, trying to soothe S's fears as best he can, he's surprised to remember that there's an even longer list of reasons why S might, built on a long history of friendship and intimacy. A lot of what J has figured out about handling this, his awful whiplash instinctive reaction notwithstanding, is because S has held his hand through so much, given J a metric for what support looks and feels like that he can hold up alongside what he knows of S and of his own needs. It's a strange patchwork, but he thinks it works. At least, right now, it makes sense to him, and as long as it makes sense to S, too, that's all that matters.

He draws back just the slightest bit, still bent close but not pressed against S's hair now. Being able to focus on S through this helps keep him settled, but it doesn't prevent the flicker of nerves in his gut, or the worry he's miscalculated. Whatever happens, he tells himself, they'll know. They'll have talked. It will be out in the open, and they'll both be better off because of it.

That, at least, is something with which S can agree without hesitation. He does trust J, and he knows too well the kind of trouble it's caused when he's tried to make decisions for J's sake. He still isn't sure that this has been that, exactly, the situation one that feels more complicated, but it would be if he didn't take J at his word. If he stops, it has to be because he wants to or because J makes it clear that he isn't comfortable going any further. Either very well might happen. Even if it doesn't, S hates this — hates how big it has become and how he looks, hates how self-conscious he feels around the one person he's ever been most comfortable with, hates the odd sense of shame that comes along with it, even though it isn't as if he stabbed himself or even knew about the surgery until after it had happened. Like so much else in his life, he had no say over it at all, something that spun rapidly out of his grasp before he could do anything about it.

At least the rest of this isn't like that, not entirely. The circumstances are, but where they go from here is up to the two of them, and he won't know what comes next until then. That's exactly why he feels like he has to do this now. If he doesn't, he very well might never do it, and then they'll just remain stuck where they are now, not knowing what might work and what won't. Keeping himself covered around J has been a measure of control in a way, too, preventing the possible fallout, but a desperate one, the only option he saw available to him. Maybe after today, that won't still be the case. Or maybe it will, but at least he'll know then instead of basing it only on frightened guesswork.

Resolved as he might be to attempt this, he can't look at J as he does it, nor can he look at himself. He glances past J to the wall instead, keeping his eyes there as he unbuttons his shirt with shaky hands. It's been so fucking long now — he's been so careful not to do exactly this — that it feels wrong now, almost enough to make him want to change his mind, but he's determined now to see it through. So instead, he waits, all but holding his breath as he unfastens enough buttons that the shoulders of his shirt can fall loose, hoping that he hasn't just made a really big fucking mistake.

J's breath catches, but he doesn't say a word, not quite having expected S just to go for it so abruptly. It's an instinct he understands, though, something they have in common, not always for the best. He hopes this time it is, that this will be something they get right, though a small part of him is almost grateful that S is so visibly shaken. Focusing on S, worrying about his wellbeing, it keeps J focused on S and what they're doing, rather than his own anxiety.

It's still there, of course, a low-level buzz underneath his skin, the faint fear that he's made a mistake, diving in before he was really ready just because the subject came up. He doesn't want to think he'd do that, not when it's S that's in the balance, but trusting himself is still hard, especially when it comes to things that matter. His arm still around S, he keeps his breathing slow and steady, gaze darting from S's trembling hands to his face. As much as he wants S to look at him, it makes sense to him, in a terrible lurching flash, that he wouldn't. And maybe that's for the best — for S's peace of mind, but also for J, not having to worry as much about his expression, the way it slides from worry to wariness, concern to caution. Stomach twisting, he looks, gaze trailing down from S's face to his shoulder and slowly lower to the network of scars across his chest, J's lungs constricting at the sight.

It hurts, it does, but he expected that it would. He steels himself against that, stubborn as ever, and remembers to start breathing again, repeating a litany of reassurance in his head. It really isn't anywhere close to as bad as it was before, whatever S has said, and J doesn't know if that's because S has healed more over the last year and a half or because seeing it the first time was so overwhelming that it looked worse to him. Maybe he just built it up in his head, spun out of panic and months of hindsight. Either way, it does make his heart ache to think of S dealing with this alone, but it also isn't unbearable. It will take time, he tells himself. He was never just going to be happy and comfortable with this, least of all right away.

And, anyway, much of the hurt in his eyes is for S, more than himself and his own guilt. Lifting a hand to S's cheek, he leans in to kiss the other again. "Are you okay?" he murmurs. "It's okay. I'm okay." He hates who he was, who he became, the parts of him that coalesced into his darkest self. He hates that he was capable of this. But he hasn't yet fallen apart, and that gives him hope he won't do so at all. There's a flicker of curiosity in his throat, gaze dropping briefly again and then back up to S. He wants to look more closely, to familiarize himself with the sight, to acclimate; he wants to touch, for that matter, so that he knows, and so it won't be a surprise in the future. Until he's sure of S's comfort with it, though, he won't let himself do either.

He should have said something, S realizes belatedly, but that's half the problem here. He doesn't know how to talk about this. Just in the span of this conversation, he's said more about it than he ever has, and to keep going would be to run the risk of convincing himself not to go ahead with it after all. At least, if nothing else, he thinks he's probably cried himself out, if only for the time being. He's still flushed and tear-streaked and sniffly, his breath still catching intermittently, but he's not actually crying anymore, which is probably the only thing that would make this even more mortifying. It shouldn't be. He's been shirtless in front of J more times in his life than he would be able to count — hundreds if not thousands, something he didn't used to think twice about even before they were in a relationship. They would have had a hard time sharing a studio apartment with each other if he'd been hung up on some ridiculous idea of modesty.

But that was before — before stabbings and open-heart surgery, before J wound up suicidal at the sight of him, before a year and a half of carefully avoiding letting J see his chest at all. A shiver runs through S now, not from any chill in the apartment but simply from nerves, the weight of J's gaze even heavier than usual even with S avoiding meeting his eyes. Only the hand on his cheek gets him to look at J again, and he's cautious when he does, afraid of what he'll see there. He didn't want J to have to see him like this. Despite all he said about not realizing how much it bothered him or how hard it was to hold it back, there's still a part of him that thinks it would have been easier, better, never to address this at all. They have, though, and they're here, and he's terrified, even hearing J say that he's okay.

He hates the unease he feels and the desperation for reassurance, hates how badly he wants comfort when part of him is still convinced he should be the one giving it. He had none, though, when this first happened, and while he was aware of how awful it was, how lonely he felt, how much he wished he had J or his parents with him, it was one more thing he had to push down and keep buried. It's not as if there was anything to be done about it. Of course he craves that comfort now.

"I'm okay," he answers, though he sounds a little like he's trying to convince himself of that and feels anything but. He doesn't know how to explain it. he does, though, remember the first time he brought J back here, how he tried to soothe J while J fell into a panic and failed miserably at it. Taking that approach again, focusing purely on the physical facts of it, seems like the easiest approach right now, however willfully obtuse it might make him. "I'm okay. Really, I... I am. There haven't been any complications or anything. No problems since. It looks bad, but..."

J lets out a huff of a sigh at that, thumb stroking over S's cheek. If there had been complications, he would have known sooner, he thinks. S would have told him then, at least, about the doctor visits and all that. "I meant you," he says, though he's sure S understood perfectly well. "Do you feel alright? I know this is... a lot... very suddenly." He feels guilty for it now, worried he rushed this. If he'd been able to keep his emotions in check a minute longer and talk through this before he got all upset —

Well, he wouldn't be him. He still wishes he'd managed, though, that he could have handled this with more grace, for S's sake. Leaning close, he kisses S's cheek again, wishing, too, that he knew precisely how to soothe him. However calm S's words are, his voice isn't quite. His body certainly isn't. All he can do, J tells himself, is to take this slowly and seriously. This is difficult new territory and he has no idea how to handle it. He just knows it feels entirely wrong that S should have to feel unhappy and self-conscious and try to dismiss it because of something J did wrong.

"It doesn't look that bad," he says, but he makes himself look as he does so, forces himself not to say it just to reassure S but with an actual view of what he's talking about. The longer he looks, the more he can remind himself that nothing real has changed. "It looks better than before, darling. Or maybe I'm less..." He sucks in a breath, a corner of his mouth hitching wryly up. "Insane? For the moment." The marks are still noticeable, but he thinks he can see it now, a faint difference between some of them, though he might also be imagining it. If he's right, though, even sort of, then the biggest of them may not even be his work; it's too straight and clean to be something he did in a rage. That's reassuring, at least, for whatever measure of the word applies to him. He feels remarkably calm about it, really, if a little bit like his ears are ringing.

Screwing up his courage, he glances up at S, trying to catch his gaze. "Is it okay if I touch?" he asks gently. He's had his hands on S countless times these last months alone, but his hands don't often stray far beneath S's shirt, if only because it's inconvenient and easy to get tangled up in, and he's not about to assume that this is in any way like it was before, something simple and obvious. "Are you okay?" He doesn't want to push too much — he knows he'd snap if S kept prodding him like this — but he also needs to know.

Edited 2022-09-16 04:30 (UTC)

Even with as shaky and vulnerable as he feels, S still manages to pull a face when J says it doesn't look that bad, nose wrinkling slightly. It looks horrible. It does to him, anyway. Before, when he was on his own, that was never the case. He didn't think they looked good, exactly, but he was in pretty terrible physical shape then anyway, too skinny and too pale, exhausted and miserable. Were that not the case, he still wouldn't have had to consider how they would look to someone else then, given that he couldn't have been less interested in being intimate with anyone. Hazy as his memories of that day are, he does remember that, before J saw him and stopped things, S hadn't spared a thought for the scars on his chest at all. He should have. Maybe if he had, maybe if he'd less caught up in the moment and less fucking stupid, he could have prevented things from escalating to such terrifying heights. Maybe they wouldn't be here now, with him feeling guilty for upsetting J and guilty for needing so much comfort and hating that something that used to be so simple now feels nearly impossible.

"You can touch," he answers, his voice wavering a little, though he manages to bite back the please that threatens to follow. He shouldn't ask for that, considering how big a step this is in its own right. He probably shouldn't want that. Something about all of this makes him feel painfully young, though, brought back to when this first happened and he had no one at his side, not even a single visitor in the hospital. He wanted so much to be held and soothed. Right now, it's hard not to think that he should be offering that instead, with how fresh in his mind the memory of J's reaction to seeing him like this before is, but if anything, J seems calmer than he is. That's probably unfair, too.

As for the question of whether or not he's okay, it doesn't surprise him at all that J sees through his earlier answer, but S still doesn't know what to say. He doesn't feel particularly okay. Saying that it's a lot very suddenly barely comes close to covering it. However much he would like just to dismiss any concern, he doesn't think he could do so convincingly at all. Given what started all of this in the first place, he figures he owes J more honesty than that, anyway. "And I don't know. If I am. I'm not... not okay."

J hums, nodding, bolstered by the look S gives him. "That's about as good as I could hope for," he admits, his expression softening into something reticently rueful. "I feel like I pushed you too hard."

Even so, the way S responded to his first question didn't sound so much like S reluctantly agreeing to something he doesn't want at all; it just sounded small and tired, and that, too, is about as good as J can hope for right now. Whether he pushed too hard or not, they're here, and he's not about to back down.

Hand trailing down from S's cheek, he runs his fingertips along S's neck, palm resting at his shoulder. "I don't know," he adds quickly. "Maybe I —" He stops, snorts, rolls his eyes at himself even as he smooths his hand over S's skin, going slow and careful. "I definitely worry too much. I just... don't want to make this harder on you than it is, and I..." He bites his lip, trying to shake that off again. Apologies can wait until they're on steadier ground, since S will tell him off if he gives one now anyway. "I hate that I didn't know."

He didn't know a lot of things. He should have figured, he thinks now, that there would be doctor's appointments and that surgery would have caused at least some of the scars he saw. He should have known that S taking things in stride didn't mean it was easy for him, that it didn't hurt, whether or not he saw it himself. It's frustrating to get something so important so wrong.

His heart gives an awkward lurching leap as he runs the pads of his fingers slowly along the line of a scar, his throat going tight. It doesn't feel much different from his own, the jagged characters he touches absently at times, though he's pretty sure it's always going to seem different to him, simply because of why and how he caused both. It makes him uneasy, stomach and chest tight, but he can almost feel a kind of relief in it, something in the back of his head, dancing up his spine, that helps. His touch light, he traces a shaking finger over a line he knows has to be from what he did, then slowly down the one that runs down the center of S's chest, the one too long to be from what he did.

For a few moments, S can't respond, his breath caught in his throat as J traces his fingertips along the scars on his chest. He's shaking, he realizes, slight but noticeable, barely aware of the fact that J is too as a result. It isn't as if there's any physical discomfort — that time is long past — or as if he's still worried now about this taking a drastically bad turn like it did before. It's just hard to be seen like this after months of convincing himself it would be for the best never to attempt this. Again, he can't watch J touch him like this, feeling vaguely ill at the thought of what he knows he looks like. This could have been so, so much worse, and he's spent these past months afraid that it would be, but that doesn't mean it's good. The baggage attached to this part of their history never will be, though he's long since forgiven what led to these scars.

"You didn't push me," he says, quiet and self-conscious and at least reasonably certain that it's true. He doesn't feel pushed. He's the one who brought it up, after all, even if his doing so was completely accidental in every way. The doctor's appointment, then the surgery, then the mess of feelings still tied to this subject, he would have preferred to leave all of it unspoken, or, in the case of the last, unrealized. It would have been easier. It was a long time ago, though — that same first day, though he's pretty sure in a quieter moment, one of the lulls between surges of emotions — that he told J that he didn't want easy. If that was what he was looking for, then he never would have acted on the feelings he had for his best friend and roommate all those years ago. This hurdle is hardly the biggest one they've faced, either before then or since.

Attempted murder, he's pretty sure, will always top that list.

Obvious as it might be now, he feels like he owes at least a bit of an explanation here, nodding toward where J's finger traces the thicker, cleaner surgical scar without looking at it. "That's the one from the, um. The surgery," he adds. "I would have told you. I... didn't know that you didn't know." Especially after finding out that J is the one who got him to the hospital, he would have expected that it would speak for itself that surgery ensued, but then, it isn't as if he's ever spent a lot of time talking about the span of time that followed. "And I didn't know that it was weighing on me so much."

It should reassure J, he thinks, that at least neither of them was conscious of that. Right now, though, it doesn't do much, distracted as he is by the fact that he's tearing up suddenly without knowing quite what part of this is to blame. He rests his hand over the scar, feeling the warmth of S's skin; the texture might be different, but the warmth is the same, and he needs a moment to steady himself.

"I was," he starts, unsure how to finish. "Everything was so much. It didn't occur to me. Very little did. I — I don't think it would have mattered then." He's fairly certain that, the way he felt that day, he wouldn't have heard any difference. As it is, that part of him is still very much lurking in his mind, doubting there is a difference. The surgery scars, after all, wouldn't be there if not for the ones J left on his own. Now, though, things are slightly different. The facts are all the same, but what they spell out has changed somewhat in his eyes, and having S love and trust him all this time helps to soften some of the edges. It still hurts, all of this does, but it's not the pain it was before.

"I thought I did that," he mumbles. He nearly closes his eyes, but he has the strong sense that, if he does, he'll see things he doesn't want to. Even so, his vision blurs enough with him staring at some vague point on S's skin that he doesn't see much anyway. "It scared me. But even if I'd known... I was so miserable. It wouldn't have made a difference. But now..." He lifts his hand slightly again, fingertips grazing the scar again, running slowly down the length of it. "This is why you're alive. This one saved you. So it's okay, right?"

He doesn't mean for it to be a question. It isn't, quite. What he means is that, to him, that's the difference, and as hard as it still is for him to stomach what he did, he wants to believe that he can see something good here — not just something to endure or to get used to, but a reminder that S lived. But he's not sure that's his call to make. They're S's scars, S's fight. He lived through it, not J. Throat tightening, he shakes his head. He's not going to accustom himself to the sight of these all at once, but even if he's teary-eyed, he's not nearly as emotional or as upset as he thinks they both feared he would be.

It's so often like this, S thinks, the back and forth, J staying composed while consoling him, him pulling himself together when J gets upset. At least no longer being quite such a wreck makes him feel a little less guilty, though that's balanced out by the waver in J's voice and how heart-wrenching it is. Even that is fine, or it should be. As reactions go, this is a far milder one than the last time J saw this, when, as he's just said, he was too shaken and unhappy for the specific source of the scar to matter all that much.

Still, S frowns, expression concerned and apologetic and soft as he looks at J, one hand lifting to his cheek. For him, it isn't a question at all that it's okay. It was a year and a half ago, and it is even more so now. He hates the way he looks and he hates that, no matter what he does, he'll always carry around this reminder of what happened that terrible night, but physically speaking, he's fine, and if he held anything against J for what he did, then they wouldn't be here now. That would be cruel, as far as he's concerned, to act like everything is fine while holding a grudge or worrying about what might happen.

"Please don't cry," he murmurs, his own voice a little unsteady, though he manages not to start crying again himself. "It is. Of course it is. I'm fine now, and we're here." That, he's thought since he first spotted J here, is the most important thing. They're here, they're together, they have this impossible chance, and while it's not as if the past doesn't matter, it doesn't have to be what defines them now, either. He only wishes that J didn't have to see this. He kind of thinks that he had the right idea before, actually, staying covered in J's presence, preventing him from having to confront this. There's no taking it back now, though, and at least it's gone better than it did the first time, not that that's saying very much.

His thumb gently stroking J's cheek, S has to fight hard to ignore the instinct to pull his shirt back up and button it again. Even if he did, it wouldn't undo this or the emotional effect of it. Chances are, nothing will even change all that much after this, and S considers that a good thing. He can't imagine that J would want to fuck him with a view like this, or that it would be a welcome addition to something relaxing like a shower. S is more than alright with that. He may have once suggested leaving his shirt on as a temporary measure, but he hasn't thought of it like one in a long time. "Are you okay?"

The touch of S's hand nearly makes J start crying in earnest, and he still doesn't know how to explain what exactly he's emotional about. It's a lot of things at once, all muddled together, and none of it easy to articulate even to himself. Leaning into S's palm, he nods, finally letting himself close his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath before he tries to say anything. He doesn't want to cry or make this into a mess it doesn't have to be or worry S more than he already must.

"Yes," he says when he can, his voice soft but certain, eyes opening again. His vision is still fuzzy, and he lifts a hand to wipe his eyes, sniffling. "Is it..." He wavers, unsure how to put this. The thing is, it's a question he doesn't think he needs to ask, because S is always kinder to him than he is to himself. But he wants to, wants to get the words out of his head. "What I did... it's always going to be..." He pulls a face. "Hard for me. That sounds selfish. But it is, so I don't want to sound like I'm making it a small thing when it isn't. I just... I really thought I did more. And it's... a — a relief?" It's such a strange word to apply to something so horrible, but he can't help the truth of it. Part of this, the reason his breath is hitching, his cheeks hot, is how overwhelming the relief is, mixed in with everything else. "I didn't do that. And you're here and alive and I — I was worried I'd never..." He huffs, frustrated by his own wobbly voice and inability to express himself right.

"That this would be too much or I wouldn't get to see you again or that I'd be wrong and break down again, but it's fine," he says, a little bewildered. It's not like he loves how the scars look — there's too much bound up in that history for them to be particularly appealing in that regard — but they don't bother him now as much as he worried they might. Maybe it's because he's trying to make himself see things this way, but right now, they're reassuring. He was right, he thinks, to say they're proof S lived. Blinking hard against his tears, he glances up at S through damp lashes. "Is it possible," he asks, faintly wry, "that I overreacted before?"

He knows it's more than possible. What he doesn't know is if he's making even the slightest bit of sense right now. Fingers wandering again, he grazes one of the smaller, rougher scars, shaking his head slightly. It's strangely fascinating, in an absolutely awful way, and at the same time, he finds himself thinking that even this one seems more healed now. Time keeps moving. They've had so much more time than he thought they'd get, yet now he's more sure they'll get longer still.

Is it fine? S isn't actually sure. He can't, of course, decide that for J or be the one to determine how upset is too upset, but he mostly just feels guilty and uneasy and sad that any of this is even necessary. Aside from how badly he'll always wish that he had just fucking left when J told him to that night, he knows it's not his fault that he looks like this, and to him, it simply makes sense that it would be hard for J. Like he's sure he's said before, like he's more than willing to say again, he doesn't think it's selfish at all. He wouldn't even have thought it was selfish if J never was comfortable trying this again. He may have been waiting for J to broach the subject, but it isn't as if he was sitting around quietly resentful about having to keep his chest covered; if anything, he came to prefer it that way himself. Given what caused that, what he was afraid of, this should be a relief to him, too, and it is, at least in that sense. It's hard, though, to sit here and be seen and touched like this, and to know that, even if this may not have gone half as badly as he feared, it isn't as if doing this once will remove all the baggage from this particular matter.

Like J just said, it's always going to be hard, something that applies to both of them. For himself, forgiving J and starting over together were the easy parts. Living with the aftermath isn't always as much so. The months spent grieving, the trauma of having nearly been killed, the physical scars left behind — those things don't just go away, even if he's mostly tried to conceal the latter two.

As much as it hurts him to see the tears in J's eyes and at least feel like he's the cause, though, he knows too well how much worse this could be. That last remark gives him something to respond to without saying the rest of what's in his head, anyway, which comes as a relief. "You? Overreact? Never," he says, the gentlest sort of tease, before lifting his chin so he can kiss J's forehead. He's not sure he would put it that way, actually, understanding as well as he can why J reacted the way he did, but it also doesn't surprise him that, in that moment, surprised by the sight of them, J saw the scarring as worse than it really is. Until then, S hadn't even thought that much of it at all, at least relative to the rest of that whole mess. Now, of course, is different, and one more thing it's going to be hard to shake.

He doesn't want to say that. But then, his not talking about this is what prompted this whole situation in the first place, so maybe it's better to try to say a little of it after all. "It's funny," he murmurs, quieter now, teeth pressing to his lower lip. "Or not funny, but... After it happened, even when it was still new, I didn't think it was that bad. Too much else on my mind, I guess. No one else around to see them. And now... here... it seems so much worse than I first thought. Even now."

J closes his eyes at the press of S's lips, feeling a little shaky for it, as if, yet again, the promise of comfort is what makes it hardest to hold himself together. He's doing remarkably well, he thinks. Emotional though he is, he hasn't fallen apart. After how poorly he reacted initially, he's trying hard to be more measured in his responses, both honest and still trying to keep from getting too worked up.

Intentions are well and good, but they don't stop him from continuing to tear up, or the ache in his heart listening to S. Blindly, he reaches his other hand for S's, the one at S's chest shifting up to his cheek instead. He wants, always, to apologize for all of that. They've both grown about as accustomed as it's possible to be with the awful fact of J having tried to kill S. That doesn't diminish the misery he feels, thinking of S alone in the aftermath. It doesn't make him wish any less desperately that he'd been there after all, though it makes no sense, to have taken care of S while he recovered.

"Darling," he murmurs, heartache only slightly soothed by the fact he's here now. It isn't the same. He still hopes to do some good, but he can't undo the past, and it's hard to talk around the tightness and the apologies in his throat. Sniffling, he shakes his head. "It really doesn't look bad. I — I don't know if I can make you believe that, but it's true. I think it is." He shrugs, reminding himself that, when it comes to this, beyond his not losing his mind at the sight, his opinion doesn't matter all that much. Still, his opinion is all he has to offer when, as he said, he can't change S's just by force of will. "I wish I could make you see how I see you. Even this, it's... you survived so much. I didn't get to be there to help you —" His voice shakes despite himself and he swallows hard, frowning. "But you did. And it's a bit reassuring that they aren't as faded as mine, because that proves you did."

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."

Sometimes the fondness J feels is so much it makes him ache, as if his whole body is trying to get closer to S when it physically can't. S holds his hand tight and they're pressed together, cramped and awkward, and J will probably ache in different ways when he stands again, but all he wants is to keep S close. "Who do you think I learned it from?" he asks, gently teasing, thumb stroking again and again, slow and soft, along S's cheek. It comes out quiet, though, J not wanting to distract from anything S has to say. This is too important. He doesn't want to make light of that. He doesn't want S to feel the things he put himself through — the loneliness of feeling he ought to laugh or give in and just be better, cured by sheer dint of someone else's will. As much as J wishes he could fix this just by willing it so, he's not going to let himself do the things he'd be afraid of if this were him.

"Maybe it's easier," he allows. "It seems like... it hurt a lot, but if you didn't know, then it was easier to handle, right? I don't think you can put that back, darling." He feels like a bit of a hypocrite when he says it. There's a lot he would put back if he could and a lot he does his best to ignore even now. But, he thinks, the difference is that, much of it, he knows he's hiding from. It's not subconscious, though he's sure there's more of that, too. He makes a choice to push these things away when they drift into his mind. He tries to, at least. But the things he knows without knowing — once he learns them, they're nearly impossible to hide away again.

He lets out a tiny sigh, leaning his head against S's. "But if you want to," he says, small, careful, "you can. If that feels better." He doesn't want that. Being here now, having seen what scared him before and found that he's grown and healed enough not to be thrown back to the past, being able to touch and see his boyfriend, he doesn't want to let it go. It feels like progress, both knowing he's dealt with some of this and also getting another small measure of normalcy back. That isn't worth S's comfort, though. If S really feels better staying covered up, J tells himself, he'll just have to accept this one moment in time as his proof of having improved and let go of the idea that this was ever really temporary. There are things about himself he doesn't like having seen either, parts of his being and his past that it's strange to realize anyone knows, even S. But he does, and in the end, J's found, they're better off for it. Still, it's not like either of them can just stop knowing about murder. At least S can hide this if it would make him feel better. "If you prefer it that way."

S doesn't know what he would prefer, short of not having to deal with any of this in the first place. There's no undoing that, though, nor any pretending it away. That much, he wouldn't do even if he could. It would be wrong, he thinks, to act as if none of it ever happened, not least when he knows that was part of what drove J off before, the fear that he didn't realize things had changed and wouldn't want them to. Instead, they've changed a lot, both of them. Mostly he's alright with that. The changes that bother him are the ones in himself, how he's sadder than he used to be, anxious in ways he never experienced before that night, both how different he looks and how self-conscious that fact makes him. If he could put just all of that aside, then he would in a heartbeat. But he can't, so he knows, he knows, that all he can really do is let J be here for him like he's tried to be here for J, even when it hurts, maybe especially then.

"I don't know," he murmurs, still holding J's hand like an anchor, letting his eyes close for a moment in an attempt to compose himself. He hasn't fallen apart again yet, at least, but this is all so much to take on, and he wasn't expecting any of it. Even now, he's not entirely sure how they wound up here. He knows he slipped up and said something he didn't mean to, and that J got upset about him holding things back, but the rest is an emotional haze, too difficult to parse when he hasn't really even wound up on the other side of it yet. Trying to determine how he feels isn't all that much better. "I think... it's like you said. It was easier because I didn't know how hard it was."

He didn't let himself know. He couldn't, when he thought keeping the scars covered was necessary, not worth even considering doing otherwise. Sighing, he drops his head to J's shoulder, still savoring the closeness of him after having been so painfully, vividly reminded of such a horrible time. "I don't think I'd prefer it. Or that it would feel better, now. I just... I hate that you'd have to look at me and see... that. That it's always going to be there."

Even if they were both thinking about it before, with the obviousness of his staying semi-clothed during sex or in the shower, at least it wasn't visible. To him, at least, he could tell himself it wasn't as big a deal that way. With this, no matter what J says now, it's hard to imagine it ever not being fraught and emotional — maybe, hopefully, not to the extent that it has been today, but still significant. "I'm sorry."

"Stop," J says, a soft exhale, leaning his head against S's in turn. "You didn't do anything." All S has done is try to live with what happened to him. It's all either of them has done for a long time. Maybe the way he did it upset J, but he understands why S made his choices. All he really wants is to find a way to let S live with this comfortably.

The trouble is, he's not sure how to do that, because he's not sure what S wants is even remotely possible. "Just because it's always there," he says, "doesn't mean it's always a problem. And anything could remind me of it at any time anyway. I don't just chop off my arm to stop it. If I did, I'd be reminded by not having an arm."

He says it wryly, but it's not a joke in the least. The absence of a thing can be as glaring as its presence, and his is a mind willing to seize on any chance it can to make him hate himself. What he saw that night was the man curled against him now, the eyes he loves so much, the lips more beautiful to him than a sunset, the neck he kisses every day. If anything about the past had to be turned away, he wouldn't be here now, holding S close. He wouldn't get through cooking a meal, never mind eating it, if the very sight of the damage he's done was insurmountable. He's learned to get used to things and to compartmentalize, because it's the only way to survive and he's determined to do so. Sometimes his determination is blunted by uncertainty and misery, but trying to hide any evidence of his madness might only make him feel more insane yet. There's no perfect answer to his imperfect self. He has to find an answer of some kind, though, something to make this better for S.

But what answer can there be? The things S feels make sense, but the depth to which he feels them is, like most feelings, not the least bit subject to reason. Knowing a thing and feeling it are vastly different. J knows this as well as anyone can, and feels it, too. He's not sure S understands, even now, just how entirely J gets that, how pervasive the disconnect can be. It's not that J's trying to hide it, exactly, so much as it is that he's become somewhat used to it and it only feels worth mentioning when it's pronounced. Just because he's fine today doesn't mean he won't be in agony tomorrow for no good reason at all. Just because he thinks idly about stepping into oncoming traffic doesn't mean he has any intention of doing so, or even any desire to try. He's not sure that's something S can understand, even if he tries, and he doubts it would give him any comfort at all, afraid as he still must be, even deep down, of what J might do to himself.

Perhaps referencing the idea of cutting off a limb was a poor choice, in retrospect. Regardless, he thinks, he needs to respond to what S needs, not use this as a moment to blurt out random shit he hasn't seen fit to explain before. "A lot of things are always going to be there. We can't help that."

"You know that doesn't mean I wouldn't if I could," S points out, too sad and sniffly to sound petulant. If anything, the fact that he can't just makes it worse. It's just one more thing that's spun out beyond his reach, damage that he's unable to mitigate — both in terms of the scars on his chest and the fallout from them. As usual, if he'd just kept his fucking mouth shut, they wouldn't be in this mess right now. He's not sure they would be all that much better off, since it probably would have just kept building without his realizing it, but if nothing else, it shouldn't have come out like this, making everything even more hopelessly tangled than before. And maybe it shouldn't have to be, really. J talks like it isn't, at least, and if he didn't still feel so shaky, his composure tenuous at best, S might actually find that kind of funny — J trying to reassure him, telling him that it isn't as bad as he's thought, coaxing him to move forward, a reversal of the roles they've played so many times before. Later, he very well might. Right now, he mostly just feels guilty for needing it at all, for the fact that this has, without his knowledge, become something on which he's so stuck.

Letting out another long, slow sigh, he tries again to catalogue everything about this moment, all the ways in which things have changed. J is still here, safe and alive. For that matter, he's still safe and alive, too, after nearly a year and a half here. He never doubted that would be the case, but he remembers how afraid J was in those first couple days, not wanting even to commit to living with him for fear of hurting him again, and as far as S can tell, it hasn't so much as crossed his mind to do so, at least not in any way he hasn't expressly wanted. The two of them have played the piano in front of each other. So many things he thought were lost that haven't been, not really. They've just taken some time to get back there again.

And, now, J has seen the scars on his chest once more, and while S can't really say it's gone well, it hasn't gone even a fraction as poorly as last time. That counts for something. It counts for a hell of a lot, actually. "But please don't cut off your arm," he mumbles, because he can't not say anything to that, even if he doubts J ever would. Granted, J has done a lot of things that S once wouldn't have imagined he ever would, which he really sees no need to point out now, but cutting off a limb would, in some ways, be all the more drastic. At least, it would probably be more physically difficult.

It's stupid to even give it this much thought, but at least it provides a momentary distraction before he tries to find a real response. "I know. I do. I know." He scrunches his nose, almost amused, still too forlorn to be convincingly so. "I never wanted being shirtless in front of you to be something I'd have to get used to."

Truthfully, J isn't very good either at that part of things, letting go of control. There are places in his life he doesn't much mind it and others where he has desperate need to be sure he's the one calling the shots, because the world is too much and his mind is precarious. But in order to stay alive, he's learned, he needs both. He has to be able to maintain enough control of himself and his situation to avoid things that will make him worse. He has to give up on ever being able to control everything or he'll only get worse for that too.

He's pretty sure sometimes that that's the only way he learned that. It's uncomfortable when so much of himself seems beyond his control, but he doesn't think he'd have made it this far if he hadn't been able to manage it sometimes. But S, S has never had to learn it to the same extent J has. He's had every reason to keep grasping to hold the reins of every situation before him, and J hasn't often given him much cause to do otherwise, not as more than a day's distraction. Of course S would change things if he could. So would J. But too much of what J would want to change is set in stone, painfully solid and real and immovable. He won't survive trying.

"I know," he says softly, kissing S's hair. It's hard to have to adapt to things that used to be normal. It's painful sometimes, and even as he wants to encourage S to pursue this, he also doesn't want to let him think that it's going to be simple, that the only complicating factor is S's willingness or lack thereof. There will be times, he suspects, when he won't be as at ease. But then those are probably not going to be moments when they're having sex or showering, at least. "I wish it weren't."

He can't help the longing in his voice as he says it. As calm as he's managed to stay the last while, crying aside, he's still worn down by the emotions of all this, and it's impossible to pretend he doesn't wish desperately, too, that he could undo the past. He'd give nearly anything to be able to put it all right. He just can't. There's no way to do that, and there never will be, and he'll think about it until he goes mad all over again, but he knows it won't change anything. All he can do now is work with what he has, which is a hell of a lot, and take care of this wonderful man. "And I promise I'll keep my stupid arm. I got used to it mostly." He wrinkles up his nose, not drawing away to look at his scars, though the urge to do so dances along the nape of his neck. "And I learned to stop being afraid of being over you. Remember how scared I was to even mention it? I learned to be here alone and still be safe. I learned to go out and be safe, even from me. There are a lot of things I wish I hadn't had to learn again. There are things I'm still learning. It feels so stupid to have to. It feels so small. And almost none of it is ever completely permanent or even complete, and it's really fucking stupid, thinking I've got things figured out and then having to build up my nerve again. I hate it. But what else can we do? I'd change it for you, too, if I could. I hate that I can't."

The words tumble out of him, soft and a little tired, almost like he's telling S a story to calm him, but it's all true. Maybe it helps just to be true. "I can distract you through it though and tell you I still think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen. Even if you stay all covered up forever."

Edited 2022-09-23 06:03 (UTC)

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."

The shove is nothing at all, just enough to make J bite back a small, relieved laugh. It's reassuring. They're alike in this, too — it's something he'd likely say and do, too, in S's position. He's done it before, and he knows it means, however hard this is, something good has broken through. Sometimes that part hurts, but it's important, it's progress, and it's enough that S feels up to that either way. He just squeezes S's hand, burying his face in S's hair, giving him space to find his way to whatever comes next.

That, too, comes as something of a relief. If S had decided he wanted to drop things here, J would go along with it. Of course he would. There'd always be the option to try again later, but even so, it would be on S's terms, always. J just doesn't want to go back to how it was before now, not if they can do otherwise.

"I promise," he says, quietly fervent. It doesn't feel like quite enough of an answer, but he needs a moment before he continues. "And... and sometimes it might be. I won't know until I know, but when I do, I'll tell you. But you — you won't make anything worse. Believe me, darling, you won't. If it did feel like a problem, ah, I'd probably already..." He pulls a face. Months, years, of living like this and he still doesn't have a way to name it that feels right to him. It makes it worse sometimes, not knowing what to call it, in the moments when it feels too flippant to name it madness, too expansive just to be a voice. "I wouldn't be doing well already, would I? It's mostly then that these things are too hard now."

There are varying degrees of that, of course. Sometimes it's just a day that's difficult, not like the endless weeks or months that drove him to his end, and that's unpredictable. He hopes, though, that he's doing well enough now, comparatively speaking, that he'd be able to voice that to S and not just dive in blindly and get them both hurt. He's never entirely sure of that, but he hopes all the same.

"You tell me too," he adds. "If you don't feel like being seen that way. It doesn't have to be all or nothing, okay?"