J's breath hitches, as if S's reassurances give him license to feel what he's feeling instead of trying just to push through it. He's made S sad, he knows that, and he tries hard to remind himself that's normal now and then, especially in their abnormal circumstances, but he still doesn't want to make it worse. That's the impulse he obeys without thinking, the one that has him trying not to cry even when he keeps sniffling and his throat feels too tight, and it's the one he pushes aside now.
Or, well, he can't entirely obey it anymore, but S makes it seem okay that tears are spilling over again, leaving J shaking slightly, trying to keep it, at least, relatively contained. He knew he was worried about these things, but it felt theoretical. He could think about it, but it had to be cast aside. It wasn't reasonable to think of trying again. And now there's all this stuff he didn't know, and S is giving him a chance he's been denying himself, and all that worry is bubbling up.
But it's not his fears that are doing all the overwhelming right now; it's the way S responds to them. There's no dismissal of what he's pretty sure is absolute lunacy — he's all fucked up inside, but that's him, right? It's not like he's fucking possessed, nothing's pulling the strings, it just feels that way sometimes — just gentle reminders they're in this together. That they can fight together. It's hard, sometimes, to know how scared he is until he's told it's okay that he's scared.
"I think so?" he echoes, voice wobbling embarrassingly. "I don't know, maybe it's a trick." He forces a shaky breath out, another one in. S is right. Last time was a slow, painful descent, not a sudden fall. That's one of the worst parts about it. Some of it was just stuff he'd been thinking for years, things he'd once been able to dismiss as idiocy or insecurity and wave aside to some degree, except it just got worse, harder to ignore. Some of it was new, but started either so small he didn't notice or so intensely, he didn't know what to do. It was just bit by bit, big enough to make him worry, small enough to make him feel paranoid. But this time, he knows he has serious problems to keep an eye on, and he knows what those look like — some of them, anyway, barring anything new that pops up. He knows he has to take it seriously. He knows he has to talk about it.
So he does, pushing another sharp breath out, dragging a deep, if unsteady one in first. "It's just hard," he explains, "trusting... me. What I want, what I think, what I see. It's so much better now, but... You're right, though. We won't let it happen. If — if — I do play and I-I want to keep playing, then fine, but if it seems like things are... changing again, I stop. That's it." He wants this badly, more than he's let himself think about for months, more than he realized he did, but he's not ready to pay such a cost again. He won't risk this, not his sanity, not the love of his life, for something that might destroy them both.
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Or, well, he can't entirely obey it anymore, but S makes it seem okay that tears are spilling over again, leaving J shaking slightly, trying to keep it, at least, relatively contained. He knew he was worried about these things, but it felt theoretical. He could think about it, but it had to be cast aside. It wasn't reasonable to think of trying again. And now there's all this stuff he didn't know, and S is giving him a chance he's been denying himself, and all that worry is bubbling up.
But it's not his fears that are doing all the overwhelming right now; it's the way S responds to them. There's no dismissal of what he's pretty sure is absolute lunacy — he's all fucked up inside, but that's him, right? It's not like he's fucking possessed, nothing's pulling the strings, it just feels that way sometimes — just gentle reminders they're in this together. That they can fight together. It's hard, sometimes, to know how scared he is until he's told it's okay that he's scared.
"I think so?" he echoes, voice wobbling embarrassingly. "I don't know, maybe it's a trick." He forces a shaky breath out, another one in. S is right. Last time was a slow, painful descent, not a sudden fall. That's one of the worst parts about it. Some of it was just stuff he'd been thinking for years, things he'd once been able to dismiss as idiocy or insecurity and wave aside to some degree, except it just got worse, harder to ignore. Some of it was new, but started either so small he didn't notice or so intensely, he didn't know what to do. It was just bit by bit, big enough to make him worry, small enough to make him feel paranoid. But this time, he knows he has serious problems to keep an eye on, and he knows what those look like — some of them, anyway, barring anything new that pops up. He knows he has to take it seriously. He knows he has to talk about it.
So he does, pushing another sharp breath out, dragging a deep, if unsteady one in first. "It's just hard," he explains, "trusting... me. What I want, what I think, what I see. It's so much better now, but... You're right, though. We won't let it happen. If — if — I do play and I-I want to keep playing, then fine, but if it seems like things are... changing again, I stop. That's it." He wants this badly, more than he's let himself think about for months, more than he realized he did, but he's not ready to pay such a cost again. He won't risk this, not his sanity, not the love of his life, for something that might destroy them both.