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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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?"

In a strange way, it helps to hear J say that it might sometimes be too much. It isn't as if S wants that to be the case; he very much does not. Somehow, though, it's easier to believe it's alright now with the possibility of it being overwhelming acknowledged. He has no reason to think that J would lie about such a thing, and he doesn't, but S also knows full well how stubborn his boyfriend can be. However much he might have been hurting from this, whether or not he was aware of doing so until it all came bursting out of him just now, the last thing he would want is for J to push this for his sake, or because he decided he should, or anything like that. S would sooner continue as they have been than risk inflicting that kind of damage.

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.

J lets out a soft breath of relief, nodding. Every word, every promise, feels like moving forward, and he's thankful for it. As much progress as he often knows he's made since he came here, there are still times when it's easy to feel mired in place or, worse, like he's losing ground, falling backwards into bad habits or fucking up. It doesn't even have to be true for him to feel that way. There are things he just can't shake, behaviors he doesn't know how to undo and thoughts he can't get rid of, and it's hard not to feel stuck, like he'll never truly be better. And maybe that's true. Maybe the things that are wrong in him will be wrong forever. But he's gotten better at mastering some of it, and as long as the pair of them can make progress together, then he can live with the parts of him left standing in place.

"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.

At that, S does manage to let out a laugh, faint though it is, little more than an exhale. Truthfully, sex is just about the last thing on his mind right now, present only in the sense that he hasn't been able to and still can't imagine it being anything more than an utter turn-off for J to see him like this. Even now, he mostly expects that it will get in the way, no matter what steps they've taken today. It's one thing to have gone back to having sex facing each other, with J on top of him, or for J to see him without a shirt on; it would be another to combine those two things.

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.

J hushes him, stroking S's hair. "Don't be sorry," he says. He knows S wants to say it, that he must know J won't begrudge him the need to cry, and J won't tell him he can't. He just also isn't going to pretend he thinks it's necessary. As much as he dislikes the fact of S having kept things from him, it's not like he doesn't understand now why he did, and it's hardly as if J has been anything approaching perfect on that front himself. However hard they both try to do better, there are going to be times they both fail. It could have been much worse. What matters more is how S has felt all this time, whether or not he wasn't wholly conscious of it.

"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.

S is fairly certain that he's said the same thing before, or near enough to it. Somehow, it's easier to turn that logic outward than to apply it to himself, even though he thinks they've both been trying to protect each other for a long time. It was just less complicated back then, when he stood up to teachers who wouldn't give J a chance, even when J and his mother took him in for a while after the deaths of his parents. That isn't something he'll ever be anything less than grateful for, but it was also comparatively straightforward, no matter how awful the situation was. He was grieving and alone and needed somewhere to go. Had it been the other way around, though he wouldn't wish that on anyone, he knows his family would have done the same for J. Nothing made sense then, but everything did, too.

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."

J huffs, a sound that's nearly a laugh, but more sad than anything else. It isn't fair. In some ways, he's alright with that, because it means he gets to be with S still, but it's unfair all the same that S has to put up with all of this for it. He's already dealt with so much in his life. There were so many times when they were younger that J thought about how he wanted to be something simple and safe for S; it always seemed like an impossible dream. He could be a safe place and the fact of their companionship could be simple, but everything else around them meant it could never be as easy as he wanted it to be. Now it might as well be a fairy tale.

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."

From a logical standpoint, maybe it isn't fair. S would be the first to say that he fucked up plenty along the way too, even that last day, holding himself partially responsible for the fact that he didn't just leave when J told him to. It isn't, though, as if he could have anticipated that he would be nearly murdered, or that J would kill himself soon after, or that he would, returning from the hospital, find that J's journal had been sent to him. He got a lot of things wrong, pushed and snapped and hovered when he shouldn't have, withheld the truth about the professor's manipulation, but he also did the best he knew how to do when he was doing it. Nothing ever pointed to the way things wound up. Even with J here, even when the last year and a half has been maybe the best of his entire life, despite all of its ups and downs, J is right that he does have to live with all of it. Those are things he'll carry with him always, as permanent as the scars on his chest that have been the subject of conversation just now. That probably shouldn't be fair.

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."

J closes his eyes, a little overwhelmed. He is, he thinks, grateful, at least that S understands things better now than he did before. It helps. It just hurts, too, realizing there are things S knows that he never should have had to, that he only knows because J has to, and he never wanted to. Even now, when he's in a decent patch of time where things aren't, generally, too awful, it makes him ache, the unfairness of it. No matter how much better things get, it's always there, the possibility, the threat, of the floor dropping out from under him. For that matter, it feels less possible than inevitable. It sucks a little of the contentedness from his otherwise peaceful days, such as they are. At moments like this, it just makes him bitterly sad. There's so much they'll never get away from. His madness is wound up in that inextricably, but it feels like too much of a burden to have to be this way still.

He wants to apologize for that being the case, and he wants to get angry, too, that it is. He did terrible things, but the way he's felt, he's felt for years. Everything started to crumble beneath him long before he hurt anyone, at least physically. Whatever punishment he might deserve for his crimes, this started well before that, when he had already suffered needlessly for too long. It's hard to untangle what he deserves from what he doesn't. All he's really sure of is that it's exhausting and it hurts.

And that S is right. Letting out another unsteady breath, he nods, still tracing idle designs against S's back. The part he doesn't want to say is how much that's true in general, not just in this instance, how he's become aware over the months of that. The less he says about what's wrong, the worse it is. He can't let that happen here, with this. He faltered in the winter, not quite seeing it until it was too late. He won't let himself do that again. At least, he'll try. He won't put S through that.

"Those reasons aren't going anywhere," he says softly. "I'd have to be even crazier to pretend otherwise." He remembers a little of that first day, recalls it in bits and pieces, and he knows a taste of how it felt then, how sure he was he couldn't live with all of this — or, rather, that he wouldn't, that it would be agony to go on in the knowledge of all he'd done and the pain he'd already carried with him. That it wouldn't be worth the pain of it. He was wrong about it not being worth it, but much of what was true then is true now. It's only life with S and the things he's learned since then that make it possible for him to be here still. Without all that, he thinks, he would have fallen entirely apart long ago. Again.

"I won't try to," he adds, voice still low, thinking aloud even as he overthinks in his head. "But I do think it'll mostly be okay. Right now, it's fine. And when it isn't... well, then you can just... hold me a little and remind me that some of that is because I got you to the hospital fast enough." His voice turns wry, a little embarrassed. It feels strangely self-aggrandizing even now to treat what he did as even vaguely heroic, though he's learned to accept that his actions that night both nearly killed S and saved him. "Or, if you need, I can hold you and remind you... whatever you need. How ridiculously in love with you I am."

Even now, S hates the thought that he might need that sort of reminder. If there's anything he knows, after all, it's that. J loves him, and he loves J, and while there was once a span of time when he came to believe otherwise, that was a long time ago now. Since they've been here, back together, he hasn't questioned it. And that's not what it is, really, something as simple as being loved or not, desired or not. The creeping sense of fear he feels is something murkier and worse — that the way he looks now, the reminder that the scars on his chest serve as, will be too burdensome, that he'll just remind J of that horrible night and just how out of control everything spun. As much of a relief as it is to hear J say that right now, it's fine, S isn't even sure that he can say the same is true for him. Being seen like this is painfully difficult. Maybe it's just a matter of getting used to it, but he doesn't know that for sure.

He hopes it is, though. He hopes that, one day, he won't even have to think twice about being shirtless in front of J. Though he tells himself often that he can't wish for a return to the way things used to be, knowing how closely that ties to the problems they had before and how J worried he saw their relationship, though he wouldn't want that anyway, given everything they've gone through together and gotten here, it would be nice to have that one little piece of simplicity back, to take his goddamn shirt off in front of his boyfriend and best friend without it feeling like it perches them on the edge of a catastrophe, without one or both of them being reduced to tears and panic over something that was once just a simple fact of their sharing a space. That shouldn't be too much to ask. And if it is, well, he'll be fine with that, too. As he's also told himself before, staying half-clothed is an infinitesimally small, worthwhile price to pay to be with J and keep him safe.

"I always want to hear how ridiculously in love with me you are," he says instead of any of that, summoning up a ghost of a smile. He still doesn't really want to move much yet, content to stay where he is, curled against J's chest. This, too, is something he once wouldn't have thought all that much about. It was always nice, being held, but it was easy to take for granted until there was no one left in his life at all and he wanted this more than anything else. They'll still have this, no matter what happens. He's not sure he could ever say how much that means to him. "And I'll remind you, too. What you did. How you saved me."

True as it is that he wouldn't have needed saving had J also not tried to kill him, S still thinks, and always will, that it's the part that came after that matters most. It took little more than an instant for him to be unconscious on J's floor. Letting him die should have been the easiest, safest course of action. J didn't.

Though he's the one that mentioned it first, though he felt foolish doing so, J can't help the way tears spark when S says that. His feelings around this will always be complicated. He's not sure there's any way for them not to be. Still, it's comforting to hear that and to feel some shred of truth in it. Whatever led them to that point, though he can't ignore it, he can try to hold onto that part, too, that he did the right thing in the moment.

Sometimes it feels very small. Compared to the terrible things he did, he supposes it is, that it isn't much to save a life when he's ended others. He's past pretending, though, that it wasn't the life he cared most about in the end. Sometimes it feels small for other reasons, because S has saved him, too, and still does, again and again. J isn't even sure if he understands that entirely, beyond the obvious fact of J's still being alive. Or being alive again, as it were. He doesn't think he's ever voice it really, how much it wasn't just one day or one act, how it's been S every day of his time here, how it was weeks before he felt like he could get through a day without wondering if maybe they both wouldn't be better off without him alive. He doesn't want S to think it's still a constant, pressing thing, even if he can't claim it isn't still, at times, present.

"We save each other," he settles on, soft, a tiny smile rising at the sight of S's, a slim, fragile thing, and terribly precious. Lifting his hand, he brushes his knuckles along S's cheek, then huffs out a little laugh. "Ah, even from the start. Even when all you could do was bring me a bandaid. Really, Sihyun-ah, I love you so much — dressed or undressed or half-dressed." He's settled a little since he came here, isn't saying it every five seconds, but that doesn't mean he savors it any less. It feels good to be able to say it and to hold S close, to feel sure he's loved in spite of it all. His hand slipping to S's waist, he brushes his thumb against soft skin, small reassuring strokes. "I like you every way that you are." After a moment, he adds, "How are you? Feeling okay, darling?"