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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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?"

It's still the best thing he ever did, S thinks, going up to J that day. The bandaid he offered probably didn't even do that much, all things considered, and it definitely didn't deter those schoolyard bullies from picking more fights later. Everything started there, though. Had it not been that day, it might have been another, with a different ice breaker than his meager childhood first aid, but he's still grateful for what was, and for the fact that J gave him a chance at all. S couldn't have blamed him if he never felt comfortable enough doing so, given how the other students — and teachers, for that matter — treated him. For his part, though, he thinks he knew, even back then. Maybe not where they would wind up, or what word to put on what he felt, but something still felt right, pieces slotting into place, something in him recognizing something in J.

He's said it before, or at least thought it before, that from then on, it was the two of them against the world, a battle he was more than willing to take on. While he tended to get along well enough with the other kids in their class, reasonably liked if never sought after, he knows he would never have been friends with any of them, not really, not like he became with J. Even if that was all they were to each other, it would have been worth it. Instead, he found the love of his life. The mess they've been picking up the pieces of here doesn't lessen the weight of that at all.

Bittersweet though some of it may be, with thoughts of how much he misses the simplicity of those earlier days still rattling around his head, it's still a nice thing to think back on, making his answering nod come more easily. "I'm okay," he says, and mostly means it, though there's still a slight question in his voice. "I'm... a little overwhelmed, I think. And tired. And —" At this, he makes a face, vaguely petulant. "Fuck, I feel so stupid. But I'm okay." Sitting like this helps, having J's arms around him, the soft, warm brush of fingertips against his skin. He feels much calmer than he did a little while ago, at least, and that's a huge step in itself.

"I like you every way that you are, too," he adds, turning his head into J just enough to nudge J's chest with his nose. To him, it seems like a perfectly obvious statement, something that simply stands to reason. It bears repeating, though, something it certainly can't hurt for J to hear again. "And I'm glad I gave you a bandaid that day."

For a moment, J's instinctive response to that drowns out the rest; it's hard not to think how many parts of him there are not to like, hard not to point that out. He swallows it back. In the end, that's what matters, after all. S knows those parts of him, knows him more intimately than anyone else ever could, in ways he'd never want anyone else to know him. He's still here.

And, anyway, S's face is pressed close to him, his body more relaxed in J's hold than it was before, and that matters more. J ducks his head, kissing S's hair. "So am I," he murmurs. It was more of a gesture than anything else, not much use when he had more than one scrape and a number of bruises, but no one else offered even that much attention or support. No one else ever really had, his mother excepted. He'd been so anxious that it would prove to be a trick, scared to let himself hope it was real kindness or that S wouldn't learn better. He never has, apparently, and J's glad of that too.

"You're not stupid," he adds. "You can feel it, but you aren't. How many times have I completely fallen apart? Was that stupid?" He's had his reasons, however foolish he feels for them in the moments after he starts to calm down. It's embarrassing and exhausting, breaking down like that, crying and cursing and frightened of shadows. But there are real monsters in those shadows, and he's not wrong to be afraid.

S has his reasons, too. J wishes he'd seen them sooner, that he'd known how to soothe S's worries before they got this bad, but S didn't know either. They're still figuring out how to live around and through and with all of this. As much as he hates the mess that leaves behind, he doesn't think they could do much better. It's not like theirs is a history that cleaves to the usual trajectory of more ordinary relationships, no guidelines or suggestions written out for how to navigate this. "You're doing the best you can, darling. Of course it's overwhelming. I shouldn't have waited so long to say something." Maybe this would have been easier a year ago. J's not sure of it, not quite certain he could have handled it then, but at least he wouldn't have let it fester so long.

It's different, S thinks, though he has the sense not to say so. It probably isn't true, really. He just can't shake the feeling that it is, like J's reasons for being upset are more reasonable than his own, even if he knows J wouldn't agree. He should have said something sooner, though. He should at least have realized how much this subject had come to weigh on him, when it's not as if it's something he could ever keep from his mind for very long. He's thought about it every day, after all, each time he's turned away to change his shirt or stayed half-dressed in the shower.

If nothing else, it will be nice if they don't have to worry about that anymore, even if he never winds up shirtless in any other context. At least just a glimpse of him isn't going to send J down the same dark path it did that first day he spent here. Even now, S has to resist the instinct to button his shirt again. Their current position, one he's in no hurry to move from, makes it easier not to give into it, when J probably can't see all that much of him right now anyway.

"I shouldn't have either," he points out, not about to let all of this rest on J's shoulders, even though he knows, too, that he really couldn't have brought it up unprompted. Still, he's not sure he would have even if he could, and that's enough to be worth apologizing for, enough to leave him feeling horribly stupid. He really thought it would be better just not to mention it, but he thought wrong. The same goes for that stupid doctor's appointment. If he'd just told J about it in the first place, they could have avoided all of this fuss, but he wouldn't have had the first idea how to broach that subject. "And of course it's not stupid when you've fallen apart." Tired and self-deprecating, he rolls his eyes at himself. "It only feels like it when I do."

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

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

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

As much as he wishes he could, S can't disagree with that. It's the very thing that kept him quiet, after all — not fear of J being upset with him, but J being upset with himself. He's seen how easily that can spiral into something big and uncontrollable. Hell, he's seen it happen with smaller things, ones unrelated to the time that J tried to kill him. It was just never as bad as that one instance. He doesn't remember now much of what was actually said, or even what got J to ease back off that proverbial ledge. What he does remember is how fucking scared he was, the horrible, gut-wrenching certainty that he was going to lose J all over again. He's carried that with him for the past year and a half — quieter, but still there, always in the back of his head. J is volatile. As far as S is concerned, with all he's been through, he has every reason to be. S just doesn't want to be the thing that sets him off.

He also doesn't want to have reacted the way he did in turn, but he knows, logically, that J is right. Were their positions reversed, as they have been in the past, he would probably be saying something much the same, reassuring J that he has reasons to be upset, that it's alright for him to fall apart. His own reasons feel far less justifiable, but it makes sense, in a way. Of course they're both harder on themselves than they would be on each other.

"If I were doing it for fun, it would be very stupid of me," he mumbles. There's nothing fun about any of this, though it is soothing to have J's arms around him as his heart rate and his breathing steady. He hopes that it might even help J a little, too. "I just... didn't want to hurt you. And then I wound up doing exactly that."

J sniffles, nodding against S's hair. He knows all too well how that feels. He's done that to S too many times to count and in proportionally much worse ways. "I know," he murmurs. "I love you so much. I wish — I wish I weren't so easy to hurt." It's hard on him, being so fucking fragile all the time, but it's hard for S, too, he knows. S is, he's pretty sure, more or less used to having to adjust for J's issues, trying to compensate for problems that might arise, guessing at things that might set J off. He dances around topics like this to keep J safe. He shouldn't have to be used to it, though. J hates that this is how it has to be. But if he wants S to accept that things can't be the way they used to, that he's not going to magically be fixed, then he has to try and make himself understand that too. Sometimes he actually does.

"Or that I were more predictable at least," he says after a moment. "Even to myself. I know you want to protect me, but I... I don't like that it hurts you. That you have to carry so much and hold things back to do it." He wishes, really, that he were easier to love. It's not that he thinks S would ask for a simpler life or even that he regrets the one they have; he just would rather it not be this hard. He heaves a sigh, drawing S tighter against him for a moment, as much of a hug as he can manage when he's already cradling S close. "Sometimes there isn't anything you can do, Hyunie. I'm me. I'll find some way to be hurt whatever happens."

All he can do, he thinks, is what he promised a moment ago — try to be honest, try to be aware. He can't know in advance what will upset him, not always, but he can warn S as soon as he does know. If he speaks up, if he reminds himself that it will hurt less now than if he lets things get worse, then maybe he can avoid real trouble. But none of that really helps him figure out how to make things easier for S when it comes to knowing what to hold back when. It's constantly changing, and few answers to that stay true for long.

S wishes that too, of course, that J weren't so easy to hurt. Even with as frayed as he feels right now, though, he has the good sense not to say that out loud, knowing it would almost certainly come out wrong. It isn't that he dislikes dealing with the fact of that, after all, like it's something that bothers him about J when that couldn't be further from the truth. Instead, he wishes it for J's sake. Ever since they were young, J has always seemed to feel things so deeply, and that's only gotten truer as they've gotten older. He wishes so desperately that J didn't hurt so much, that what he says last weren't true. It probably is, and there's no comfort in it. He doesn't mind treading cautiously if it means J hurts less; it's hard to think that it might be an inevitable outcome regardless.

So often, he thinks, they wind up here. In a strange way, it's the very thing that kept him half-clothed for a year and a half, believing that the very fact of his existence would be painful for J. Of course, in some ways, it makes sense that, being so close to each other, they would be all the more likely to hurt each other, too, especially when they're both so fucking stubborn. It just hurts him to hurt J, and to think that there might be no alternative.

"You know me," he mumbles into J's shoulder, content to stay close, to keep holding onto him, for a while longer. "I don't like when there isn't anything I can do." This, too, is a tendency that he knows gets him in trouble, that where he was trying to take some small bit of control over a situation that seemed to be wildly spinning further and further away from him, it came across like him trying to control J. Here, too, it's clearly backfired. He couldn't and can't do anything about the way he looks now, the scars marking his chest, but he could make a point of keeping them covered. He thought it was the right choice. He was wrong.

Fingers idly twisting in J's shirt, more affectionate now than anything else, he sighs. "And it's usually not like this," he adds. Most of the time, he doesn't hold terribly much back. There's just the occasional subject that seems better left untouched. "With this, it just... I didn't realize how big it was getting. I didn't know it was hurting me, not like that."

J nods, a slight fond smile on his lips at S's comment. He's not delusional enough to pretend it doesn't frustrate the hell out of him sometimes, but he's perfectly aware of S's need to take care of things and control his situation. Sometimes it's endearing, sometimes infuriating. Mostly it makes J worry, though he doesn't really have any room to talk.

More pressing is this, letting S get out the things he's thinking and working through. Hand stroking down S's side, he nods again. "Sometimes you don't know until, all at once, you do," he says. It happens to him a lot, and he's not really sure why. Things just get pushed down until they boil over. With this, he thinks, he really should have noticed. He, at least, should have been less of a coward and spoken up long ago. It's one more thing to add to the long, long list of stuff he can't undo. "Now we know. And you... you can talk to me about it. Or not, whatever you prefer. And we can do something about it. Anyway, if I'm going to be upset about something regardless, I'd rather be upset knowing things than not, I think. Mostly."

"Mostly," S echoes, a hint of a weary smile playing at the corners of his mouth. In a strange way, there's reassurance in the fact of that — both that J would rather know, making this subject one that might not have to stay quite so off-limits, and that that may not always be the case, making him feel a little less stupid for having thought he needed to keep it to himself. At least they both know he was well-intentioned. That alone leaves them better off than they were in such instances back in Seoul, before J left. He was wrong, but maybe there was no real way to be right. Given the subject at hand, maybe it would have hurt just as much regardless of how it came up.

He doesn't know, and his head is too foggy from all the crying to be able to make sense of much of anything. What he does know is that something feels a little like it's been set right, or at least aimed in the right direction. It's not going to be as simple as him just suddenly being comfortable with his scars in J's view, but he doesn't have to try so hard to keep them completely hidden. Maybe the comfort, then, will come with time.

"I don't... want to not talk about it. I think," he says, brow furrowing a little as he tries to sort what's in his head into some semblance of order. "I don't know what I'd want to say, but I don't want to have to keep it put away, either."

It would be soothing to J if he could have concrete answers to give, if he could say definitively what he would like and what to avoid. Not knowing his own mind is disconcerting even on his good days, and when it comes to things like this, where S's wellbeing is at stake too, it can be gutting not to be... well, easier to live with. None of this can be easy, though. He tries to remind himself that he knows that, that it's been the case for a long time, maybe always. Loving him was never going to be a simple thing for a long list of reasons, stretching all the way back to his conception.

That he has some idea of how to reply helps him a bit, though. "You don't have to," he says, soft and certain. "You don't have to know what to say. And you don't have to say it all at once either. Don't put it away. You can say whatever you need to as it comes to you." Toying with S's shirt, he shrugs. "Sometimes it comes out of nowhere, having something you need to say. It's okay. You can tell me when it does. I mean, unless I'm actively in the middle of a nervous breakdown —" He wrinkles up his nose, reconsidering. "More of one than my daily existence is — then you can tell me. Anytime. Anything."

With this, too, it helps in a strange way to have that caveat given. S knows J better too well for anything else, and he knows he wouldn't believe that sort of reassurance. He wouldn't see it as dishonest, but perhaps just wishful thinking, overly optimistic, and then he would settle right back into not wanting to broach the subject at all. It still isn't going to be as simple as just being told once that it's fine and then never worrying about it again, but maybe with time, he'll get more used to it, maybe it will feel more like something he can do. He meant what he said before, after all. Not talking to J about something — especially something so serious, even if he hadn't known until today just how much it's been bothering him — always feels inherently wrong when J has long since been the only person he talks to about most things.

"You, too," he murmurs. He knows he's said as much before, probably countless times, but right now, under the circumstances, he thinks it bears repeating. It lets him turn over his own thoughts for another moment or two anyway, difficult as they are to make sense, especially when his head feels all clouded from crying. "Anytime, anything." He clutches absently at J's shirt in turn, mostly just for something to hold onto, the presence of J as reassuring as ever. "And I'll... I'll try to be better at... letting myself talk about it. When I need to."

It's ridiculous that J needs to hear that. He knows it is, when S has told him so many times, when he's taken him up on it so often. Even if he were a more outgoing person with any number of other friends, S is and will always be the only person he can really open up to. No one has ever or will ever know him in the same way. He wouldn't want anyone else to. There's too much he's done worse than wrong for that. S loves him, knowing all of it. He doubts anyone else could even like him if they knew just a fraction of his past.

There's no escaping who he is and what he's done, and still sometimes it gnaws at him, the fear that talking about it is too much, like S isn't perfectly aware of it all. So the reassurance helps, even if he thinks he shouldn't need it.

"When you want to," he adds, kissing S's hair. "When you can. It doesn't have to wait until it's a need." He should take his own advice, really, and remember to talk to S when he thinks of something that should be shared rather than waiting until he's falling apart to broach some of it. The day that happens, though, is probably far off. And yet he's said so much during his time in Darrow that he feels a quiet wave of guilt over it now. "You always listen to me. That can't be easy sometimes. And it... it's not just things I did or felt. It happened to you, too. I did. I don't — I don't want you to have to hold that by yourself. I can hurt a little if it means you don't have to do it alone. You do it for me."

It's never going to be easy to talk about that time, but it's often harder not to talk about it at all. And all this time, he's gone on about how he felt and what he did and how horrible he is for it without giving S nearly enough room to talk about what it did to him. It's selfish, avoiding that because he knows it will be hard to hear.

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