This is, J thinks, one of the hardest parts of what he's gone through these last couple years, the way it ripples out. It's hard enough to bear on his own, but knowing that, whatever the fuck is wrong with him, it impacts the people he loves only makes it worse. S has spent a lot of time telling him that it's okay, that he's worth it, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, hearing S blame himself even a little, knowing something that used to be theirs is just gone.
"That's not true," he protests, though it's quiet. He doesn't want to fight or make a lot of noise, and S holds him so tenderly, so close, that there's no need to raise his voice. "It's not your fault. You weren't doing any damage. It's not like you were trying to make me feel bad, and it's not — I did that. I made myself feel bad and I took it out on you." His anger and resentment back then, he thinks now, was around S, not really about him. It was just him finding an outlet for a pain that was otherwise tangled too tightly around him. He could have just done this instead, talked, but no, he had to turn everything into a fucking fight or silence. "I would have felt bad if you stopped because of me then too."
Maybe some part of him would have been relieved, but he doesn't think it would have been enough. If not S, he would have found something else to compete against. For a year at least, it was himself, no one else, and that's an impossible fight to win. What went wrong, he thinks now, is that he was lost, and he wouldn't let S help him, and he got mad at S for not being able to help or knowing what was wrong. He was less coherent then than he is now, and, guilty though he feels about the way he was, he's not sure that's anyone's fault, but it's certainly not S's.
"You didn't make me like that," he continues, still petulant, still sniffling between sentences. "You just did what you could. And if I don't ever play again, it won't be because of you alone. It'll be because I don't want to hurt anyone ever again, especially you." What he wants, what he's wanted for so long, is exactly what S has said — to love it again, for S to love it again, for them to have that to share. They've done well these last months, been happy and gotten through the days without that to bond over or argue about, but he misses those days before everything fell apart. Before he fell apart.
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"That's not true," he protests, though it's quiet. He doesn't want to fight or make a lot of noise, and S holds him so tenderly, so close, that there's no need to raise his voice. "It's not your fault. You weren't doing any damage. It's not like you were trying to make me feel bad, and it's not — I did that. I made myself feel bad and I took it out on you." His anger and resentment back then, he thinks now, was around S, not really about him. It was just him finding an outlet for a pain that was otherwise tangled too tightly around him. He could have just done this instead, talked, but no, he had to turn everything into a fucking fight or silence. "I would have felt bad if you stopped because of me then too."
Maybe some part of him would have been relieved, but he doesn't think it would have been enough. If not S, he would have found something else to compete against. For a year at least, it was himself, no one else, and that's an impossible fight to win. What went wrong, he thinks now, is that he was lost, and he wouldn't let S help him, and he got mad at S for not being able to help or knowing what was wrong. He was less coherent then than he is now, and, guilty though he feels about the way he was, he's not sure that's anyone's fault, but it's certainly not S's.
"You didn't make me like that," he continues, still petulant, still sniffling between sentences. "You just did what you could. And if I don't ever play again, it won't be because of you alone. It'll be because I don't want to hurt anyone ever again, especially you." What he wants, what he's wanted for so long, is exactly what S has said — to love it again, for S to love it again, for them to have that to share. They've done well these last months, been happy and gotten through the days without that to bond over or argue about, but he misses those days before everything fell apart. Before he fell apart.