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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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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..."
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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.
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"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."
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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.
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"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."
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"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.
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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?"
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"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.
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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."
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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."
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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."
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"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."
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"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."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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"Ah, you'll make me cry again," he says through a pout, the words half-muffled, though this, too, is more of a token protest than anything else. Guilty as he might feel for needing to be held and comforted like this, it's nice, too; it's what he wanted so much during those months he was alone, in the aftermath of the incident that left him with these scars in the first place. The hard thing is letting himself have that. Another apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows J would just tell him again not to apologize, so he holds it back on that basis alone. At least that's something.
There's enough else he should probably respond to there, anyway, even if it takes him a few moments to determine how to do so, his head a mess and emotions still high. It would be too easy, too, to focus only on what J has said about himself, all of which is important but would also be deliberately skirting the subject at hand on his part. He hates, too, that J has had to learn all of those things, and he's relieved that J has, especially with what he was reminded of earlier. Hell, just feeling him here, warm and solid and safe, is more relieving than S could ever find the words for. Shifting a little, he leans into J, curled forward enough that he can rest his head against J's chest, hearing his heartbeat, as steady and sure as ever. At least, whatever happens, there's this. Somehow, that makes it easier to decide what to say.
"I don't want to stay all covered up forever," he admits, his voice wavering a little again. He thought he did. He would, at least, have been alright with it, and maybe if they'd never broached the subject, it would still have been easy. Now that they're here, though, he can't pretend otherwise and he can't lie about it. "I — I hate hiding things from you. Even when we were kids, I hated it." Breathing in as deeply as he can, he makes a small, soft sound, not so much out of frustration as reluctance. "But you have to tell me if it ever is too much, or too hard, or... you just really don't like looking at it, or anything. Please. I don't want to make anything worse."
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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?"
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But if J says that sometimes it might be too much, and that he'll say so if or when it is, then it's easier to accept the opposite, too: that sometimes it won't be too much. S doubts it will ever be entirely pleasant, and he still hates that it will just always be there, complicating what used to be so simple, but there's nothing to be done about that. All they can do is try to deal with it.
"Okay," he agrees, the accompanying nod more sure than he currently sounds, his voice small and hoarse from all the crying and being emotional still. "I'll tell you." For him, too, that may well be the case sometimes. In a way, it's strange even to consider, when he isn't at all accustomed to being self-conscious like that around J in a way that wasn't expressly invited. Even during those first few months they lived together, when they weren't a couple yet but S was becoming increasingly aware of how he felt, he was never really shy around J or reluctant to be seen. They'll never be able to go back to the way things were then, though. All they can do is move forward as they are now, insecurities and scars and all. "And if it's ever too much for — for either of us, then we'll wait until it's not anymore."
If he's completely honest, it feels like a little too much now, but not in a way that he would want to act on. This whole turn of events, taking this step in the first place, has just been a lot to take in, and now that he's had a chance for the panic to subside, he feels wrung out and vulnerable, grateful still for how close J is.
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"I love you," he murmurs, taking a deep breath, inhaling the warm familiar scent of S's hair. Ducking his head a little lower, he presses a soft kiss to S's neck, tugging him close. "That's all we can do, tell each other." That and trusting each other are what makes them work so well, he knows, and it's been more important to him than ever of late, being able to do both. He's still so painfully aware of his shortcomings and all the ways in which he used to be a terrible boyfriend. Unlike with much else of his self-flagellation, though, at least this he can put to use, working to do better. At least he's all the more sure now in their mutual faith; he can't doubt that S will stop him when he needs to and communicate what he wants and doesn't want when they've spent so much time pushing their boundaries over the last year, both in and out of the bedroom. If anything, it's easier when it comes to physical things, even as mundane as getting dressed or showering. He huffs, an almost-laugh, lips curving wryly. "And you know what to say if you ever need me to slow down."
Granted, he thinks, it's not like this is something that only applies to sex. There may be days one or both of them simply don't want to or don't feel up to dealing with the memories this brings. Still, he thinks that S will appreciate being teased a little. J can't always handle that, either, when things get rough emotionally; it's often too difficult for him to let go of his hurt so quickly. For S, though, he thinks it comes as a relief, a way for him to ease back into control. Of course, now that he's said that, J can't help thinking about how fun it is to make S lose control instead, but it's hardly the time for that, he tells himself. They've just barely worked up to this much as it is.
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Still, there's no reason to rush that far ahead yet anyway, when just this has been such a big deal in itself. For right now, despite how utterly stupid he feels for having fallen apart to this extent, he just wants to sit here for a while longer, warm in J's arms, curled against him. He really didn't know the toll this was taking. Now that he does, it's hard to shake, so much having come so abruptly to the surface, leaving him worn out and a little sad in its wake.
"I do," he agrees, sniffling through the wry humor in his voice. None of that is actually what he would turn to if that did prove to be the case here, but right now, he doesn't want to spend too much time dwelling on the likelihood of that being necessary. They'll deal with it if and when that happens. As it is, he's pretty sure that if he lets himself start focusing on that now, when they've only just tried this in the first place, then he'll talk himself out of being able to do it at all, too convinced again that it would cause too much trouble for both of them. "Ah, really, I'm... I'm sorry about all of this." J, he knows, will tell him not to apologize. To him, though, it feels warranted, both for what he never mentioned before today and the way he fell apart. Had he thought it was significant enough or that it wouldn't do too much damage, he would have said something, but that doesn't change the fact that he didn't, or the way his reaction came to override J's. "I didn't mean to... I didn't realize..."
Although he trails off, he thinks J will understand what he means all the same. There are too many ways he could end those sentences and too much in his head to try to sort through. It seems better just to let it stand on its own, encompassing everything it could.
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"You can't help what you felt," he says, "whether you realized it or not." And at least he managed to get a tiny laugh out of S, a small victory in the face of all this heartache. "And I... I wish you'd said something, I do. But I get it." It's hard. With all they have to deal with, they've had to fight to be honest and open. It's not an easy thing, talking about all the elements of this, even assuming they're aware of them ahead of time; they know every time they do, it's going to hurt. Of course they try to flinch away. Pushing through that has been difficult, and he's pretty sure they should get some kind of award for how often they manage to do it anyway. That S talked himself into thinking it wasn't necessary in this one way, that it would do more harm than good, isn't entirely surprising, and as much as J wants to know these things, he can't blame S for thinking he wouldn't want the reminder or for being afraid of what a reminder might do to J.
"You want to protect me," he murmurs. "I know. And I want to say you don't have to protect me from myself and what I did, but I'm the biggest threat to me, aren't I? Tell me anyway. Please. Don't be alone with these things. Not the parts you didn't know, you can't help that, but anything. I want everything, Hyunie, all of you. And that includes this. I don't want you to be unhappy, but you don't have to apologize for this."
He's all too aware that it's something S very likely would say to him — that he has, in fact, said variations on this before — and he's probably being a bit of a hypocrite. He doesn't care. It's easier to say it to S, meaning it wholly, than to take it to heart for himself. All the same, he's painfully familiar with how easy it is to feel things without quite untangling what they are and how intensely he's feeling them. He can't possibly fault S for going through that, too.
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Now, there's so much that's complicated in so many ways, and he's still getting used to that. It's worth it — he would take all of this and then some to be with J — but he can't help if it's sometimes hard to wrap his head around. The most important things, the way he feels and what he wants, those are as simple and as constant as they've ever been. There's a mess surrounding them, though, that wasn't there before and isn't likely to go away. S thinks it would be nice if it involved less crying, but even so, that, too, is a price he's more than willing to pay.
"You sound like me again," he mumbles, soft and teasing in equal measure. None of it changes the fact that S still feels like he has to apologize for it, if nothing else for the fact that J was upset first and he's the one who drowned it out by falling apart like this, but it does help to hear what J says, or maybe it's just that it's nice to be held. Swallowing, he takes a deep breath, still leaning against J, trying to steady himself. "Even if I don't have to apologize, though... I'm still sorry." He should have thought before he opened his stupid mouth, or should have found a way to talk about it sooner. Logically speaking, at least, he knows that J wants all of him. S just didn't want that to have to involve dealing with such a constant reminder of how bad that night was. "And even if I don't have to be... I am sorry. I know you want everything. And that you... wouldn't want me to be alone with these things."
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S would choose it every time, he knows that. He still wishes he could take away at least the worst of it. "You don't want me to be either," he points out, his voice a little rougher than he expects, throat aching. It hurts just to know that being together means S will never get away from any of this, never be able to put this past behind him, and it hurts to know that would be true even if J weren't here. He's the only one who bears the blame for that. S shouldn't have to feel badly for having any kind of reaction to it.
He sighs, a little shaky. "I hate it," he admits, though it's not much of a confession. "Ah, so much. I fucked up... immeasurably, and you... you have to live with all of it. It's not fair. All the things I did to you, all the things you learned, trying to keep me safe. It doesn't go away if we don't talk about it, but talking about it might make it better or make it worse. And I can't tell you not to worry, just to be honest without ever thinking about it, and I wish I could." It would be cruel to say it without any reservations or caveats when J knows all too well how fragile he sometimes is. Knowing that S sometimes holding back makes sense just makes him feel so painfully weak. "I do want everything, though."
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The way he sees it, though, that point is moot. Fair or not is insignificant when he chooses J every single time, more than willing to live with all of it because it means he also gets to be with the man he loves. The ache in his heart now is nothing compared to how it felt being alone, knowing he would never again have J's arms around him like this, never have his person to turn to. He knows why he kept this to himself, and while he regrets it now, he's not sure he was entirely wrong to do so. It feels stupid all the same, not to have talked to the one person he's ever been able to talk to.
"I know you do," he murmurs, sighing, at once rueful and fond. "That you... hate it, and that you want everything." The rest is trickier to put into words. He pauses for a moment, tongue pressed to his teeth, as he tries to figure out how to do so in a way that makes sense and won't just get them twisted up even further or give entirely the wrong idea. Even when he does continue, though, he's still not sure he manages it. "And it actually... I do worry a little less because you're not telling me not to worry? Like... if you were, it would feel like... I don't know. Ignoring that there are reasons to. But maybe..." Idly, he twists his fingers in J's shirt, holding on purely for the sake of it. "If we both know those reasons are there, it'll be easier to move forward with them."
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