beklemmt | 이젠 다시 돌아가고 싶지 않아

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이젠 다시 돌아가고 싶지 않아

It's a dream. It has to be. J knows that, tells himself that over and over until he can't make his mind form the words anymore. At a certain point, the fear and the horror are too much. That's how it always is. He never feels entirely in his own control when he does it, though he knows he is, he must be, to make these kinds of choices. Still, it feels — felt, really — like his hands do the work on their own, like he's watching from afar. It's a terrible contradiction — to need to be far enough removed from it to keep from losing his nerve, to be enmeshed enough to feel it so it has the required effect. To know the fright in the eyes of someone dying at his hands, palpable enough that he takes what he needs from it, held enough at bay he could keep himself from falling apart after the fact or from stopping before he was done.

It's a little bit different tonight. He sees them in the shadows, hardly more than shadows themselves, hovering at the edges of his vision, but there's no victim before him tonight, no murder to relive. There's just a visceral wrongness, like he's hovering on the edge of understanding, aware they're here and that they aren't. He forgets things even as they happen, and it's the last of it he'll remember when he wakes.

There's a car. It's a worn-down old thing, the best he could afford, but it keeps running in spite of that and the damage he's done to it — did to it, that night, going too fast — but it's not moving now. He's sitting behind the wheel and it's quiet and it's dark, and something is very wrong. It's the smell, he thinks, and it takes him a moment for it to click before he realizes he knows it very, very well. It's been a long time, though, since he smelled it so strongly, the sour metallic bite of blood in the air, flooding the car, inescapable. The window won't roll down, and he leans across the seat to try the other (and he wonders, in the back of his head, why he doesn't just open the door, but he doesn't), but his hands slip, the handle slick. The blood was already there, though. He knows that when he sees it, that it isn't touching the door or the seat when he slips that does it. It was already there — is still there, on his hands, on the steering wheel, mottling the passenger seat. He knows it's there when he turns to look at the backseat — too much, more than there should be, more than there was, and it won't come out, it won't ever come out. It's happening now, but when it happened before, he scrubbed at it until his hands were red, his cheeks and eyes were red, and still he felt sure it was everywhere, seeping between the fibers until the seats were soaked in it. And it's not real, it can't be real, because this didn't happen. S didn't die, he knows that, he's sure of it, but he must have, because no one can bleed that much and live.

That's the part that cuts through the panic, slices so sharp he can feel his skin crawl, his breath stop in his throat. There's too much. Is this a dream or was it a dream to think he fixed things somehow? Was he too late? Did he go too far after all? He's faintly aware of the sounds he's making, sharp gasps as he struggles to catch his breath, high-pitched whimpers of protest. When he leans further into the backseat, he's afraid he'll find a body still there, though he should be able to see it from the driver's seat, but he can't stop himself pitching forward, clutching at the armrest. He never got used to this smell. It grew familiar, but he hates it — in the same faraway manner in which he feels everything but abject despair — and he can't get away from it. The knife shouldn't be here, he knows that, he's absolutely certain of it, but then he's not really sure of anything. He left it in his rooms, he knows he did, but maybe he didn't. There's too much that he's can't say with any real confidence, too many patches of time he can't account for, too many memories he might have made up.

It's dark still and he can't breathe, bent forward instead of back, leaning over the blanket and draped over the knees he's pulled up to his chest. Clutching at the sheet, the sounds he makes are incomprehensible even to himself, almost inhuman, harsh, panicked breaths punching out of him as he struggles to get air past how tight his throat has become, past the sobs that start to shake him as soon as his body is alert enough, well before his mind catches up. He tries to call S's name, terrified he isn't there to respond, but he can't make it come out, can't force his body to turn. If he's alone, if it was real, if it's true, then he'll die like this, struggling for air like some of them did. The thought of that is enough to make some part of him want just to give up and let darkness take him again. "Please," he mumbles, desperate, unable to manage anything else. It's hardly the first time he's woken up (he is awake, isn't he?) in a panic, but not like this, rarely so pronounced and all-encompassing.

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For a moment, J just stays where he is, quiet, thinking about this, and then he's moving, wriggling around in S's grasp so he can sit up a bit better. As much as it helps to hide a little when he talks about these things, he also can't stay tucked away, taking S's comfort, when S sounds like this. He has to face him, to look at him, propped up enough that he doesn't have to rest on his hands or hold onto S, so he can reach up and touch S's cheek.

"It doesn't have to," he says. "I miss that, too, you know, when it was ours. I miss when it felt right at all. But just because I loved it first doesn't mean it's more important than you." There are, he's pretty sure, plenty of things he loved as a kid, well before he met S, that don't much matter to him anymore or that, regardless of interest, still matter a hell of a lot less than S does. There's a lot more mixed into music, and some of it is still too hard to talk about much, like how it makes him miss his mother, too, but he's pretty sure the point remains the same. "Nothing is. Nothing could be. And if I decide not to play again —"

Granted, it's still hard to say that. Even having made up his mind long ago, having the possibility slip back into existence makes it difficult to give up all over again, but that doesn't have to be forever either. He lets out a little sigh and shakes his head, thumb stroking along S's cheek. "It won't just be about you or us," he says. "I didn't say anything for a long time about it because it scares me. I scare me. But whatever happens, whatever I do... I don't want to let anything come between us again, okay? Me playing or not playing or whatever else, I won't let it. And if I stop for now, I can try again later, or I can stop if I need to, I don't know."

But if S already sees in him that spark of competition that contributed to his madness, then J doesn't see how it could possibly be worth the risk. Not, at least, now. Maybe eventually, he'll find his way back into a frame of mind where he can handle it, but it seems too much like trouble now. If it weren't for what he learned tonight, he doubts he would have brought it up anytime soon anyway. A longer wait is probably a good thing.

Even with J in front of him now, hand on his cheek, S can't quite look at him as he hears this. It isn't that it's bad, exactly. It just hurts to hear, both J saying that he misses it too and that music isn't more important than him. Maybe that's true now, but S is sure that there was a time when it wasn't. He was alright with that, too, until it took J away from him entirely. For J to be with him but prioritize his ambition was one thing. J moving out in the name of pursuing his music, though, broke S's heart. He knows now that the professor's logic probably had a hand in that, too, but that doesn't make the fact of it hurt any less, and it doesn't quiet the very, very small part of him that's skeptical that this will remain the case now. That, too, he could be alright with as long as they didn't wind up in the same state they were in before. He doesn't need to be the most important facet of J's life. It's just a little too straightforward for him to be comfortable with now, too close to what at least feels like a different truth.

And still he feels so fucking guilty for being upset at all, for thinking such things. Despite the fact that it's simply what he believes, it seems horribly unfair. None of it negates how entirely he trusts J. They've been together again for months now, and he thinks they've been as happy as the circumstances that preceded both of their arrivals here could allow. This, too, he doesn't want to be a competition. It doesn't have to be him or music. For a while, when they were younger, it was both. He can't speak for J, but at least for him, it was the happiest time in his life, even when it should have been the worst. Pitting himself against the piano now won't do either of them any good, especially not when he does want J to be able to play again. Having this subject at hand after so long is just hard.

Despite his determination not to say as much, the hurt in his expression might give him away anyway, though the darkness still provides a welcome shield. It would be all the more reason to comment on the rest, except S couldn't hold this part back if he tried, his gaze finally lifting a bit again, tentative but earnest. "You don't scare me," he replies quietly, and he'd shake his head if he didn't want J to leave his hand where it is. "And I think you should try it if you want to. If you don't, or you aren't ready, that's fine, too, but I'll be there for you if you do."

Edited 2021-08-30 07:29 (UTC)

J leans forward, pressing a kiss to S's other cheek before he rests their heads together. There's a part of him that wants to say something stupid and dramatic like Maybe I should, because there's also a very real part of him that believes it. And the thing is, as important as it is to him that S feels this way, it doesn't change J's own fears. It's somewhat reassuring, not least because he's pretty sure that S's judgment of character is better than his own these days, but he still worries, still thinks he's somehow inherently broken as a person. That's a thought he's going to have to reexamine with this new information, the probability he didn't come to those conclusions and decisions on his own, but until he's had time with that idea, it's hard to shove the old notions aside.

"I love you," he murmurs, and he's utterly wrung out, but gentle, grateful, all the same. It's late and they're exhausted, and S is handling this with far more grace than J could in his shoes. He's been so thoughtful — always, really, but even more so this time around. It's clear to J that he's taken to heart the things he said in those first days when they were reunited, his fears and concerns. That's all the more reason, J tells himself, that he needs to do the same in return. It would be the right way to treat S regardless, but S gives him an example to follow.

"I don't know what I want." He purses up his lips, thoughtful, still leaning into S. "I know some things, but... I don't know. If I don't at least try, I'll probably always wonder, but..." Sighing, he shrugs, nudging at S's nose with his own. "I don't know if I'm ready. And I don't know if I'm just talking myself out of it because it's scary. If I try..." He eases back just a little, trying to meet S's gaze. "Will you tell me? If I say something that worries you or doesn't seem right? Even a little?"

That much, at least, is easy to respond to, easy to agree with. Emotional as he might be, as much as he might be holding back, though nothing important, there's no question or debate in this. Without pulling back at all or any hesitation, S nods, glancing up at J again. There's still something a little uncertain in the way he does so, but not because of what J has asked. It's just hard, even now, to be in a state like this, incapable of keeping it together, trying not to say the worst things that cross his mind, resisting the impulse to draw entirely in on himself. They've had months here, but he had months on his own before that, and some of the instincts from it have remained. Through all of that time, there was no one who could comfort him, who even knew what was going on. He still remembers thinking the day J got here that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been held before that. That is, of course, far from true now, the two of them holding each other often, but he's still, in a way, used to what it was like when that wasn't the case.

He stays put, though, not looking away this time. He doesn't want to leave any doubt that he means this. Difficult as he's sure it would be to do so, if J is going to try to play again, S knows that it won't work if they aren't honest with each other if there seems to be a problem. Besides, it would be better to do it sooner than later, better to avoid even beginning to head in that direction again. Even if it hurt, it would hurt far, far more to wind up in anything like the situation they were in before.

"Of course," he replies, voice a little hoarse despite his best efforts. "If anything worries me at all, I'll tell you." He won't so much as touch a piano key while they're there, too, he decides. Whatever J has said tonight, S knows that it wouldn't be worth it. If he isn't playing, there won't be anyone to be jealous of, anyone to compete with, or if there is, it won't be him, and so it won't get in the way of what they have here. He can, like he's said, play a little on his own time. Anything more wouldn't be worth it. This way, he might even stand more of a chance of being able to love it again. "And if you don't feel ready after all, if you wind up feeling uncomfortable, you can tell me and we'll come right home."

What this feeling is, J isn't quite sure — relief and worry all mixed together with fatigue and love, something like that, with a heavy dash of uncertainty and a little more of longing. It's a lot, is what it is, but in a quiet way, where all he can do is take a slow, steadying breath.

"Anything," is what he winds up saying, soft but emphatic. "Really anything at all. Even if you think you're imagining it." He can't go back to how things were. There are already days that are hard enough to get through, and he's doing well now — maybe not by other people's standards, but by his own, certainly, steady enough not to be overtly worrying most days, to keep breathing through the bad ones. It's not always enough, and there are nightmares and bursts of panic and self-loathing, but he survives because he has S to help him through it and because he isn't trying anymore to pretend it isn't happening. Of course, he wouldn't tell anyone else about all of this, but he hardly speaks to anyone else anyway — nothing more than passing commentary at a store or café, nothing where his feelings or the frightening way his mind can ricochet six different directions at once ever has to come up. But S knows, and S is here, and not having to pretend goes a long way even when S is at work.

If he lost any of that, if he started to close in on himself again, if he started hiding things, if he pushed S away, he doesn't know how he'd get through it again. Last time, he hated himself for things that even he knew he was exaggerating — not all of it, but some of it — and for things that he now has reason to doubt. This time, his mind has more ammunition by far. And much, much worse. Besides which, the idea of putting S through any of that again is terrifying. No matter how patient or loving S is, there's some strange part of him that is convinced — or, at least, tries to convince him — that S will finally realize he's more trouble than he's worth if he starts getting worse, which he knows is stupid, because S has stuck with him through murder.

His mind is going a little bit too fast now. He moves his free hand a bit awkwardly, looking for somewhere steadying before settling on cautiously resting it at S's shoulder, trying to make himself breathe a bit more evenly. "I just can't do that again," he says, quieter than he means to. "Feel like that or make you feel like that, I can't. And I want to play but what if that just means I'll get like that and wreck everything again? Maybe whatever broke in me is telling me I want it and it's okay so it can start all over." He ducks his head, embarrassed and sniffling, and shakes it quickly. "I know that sounds crazy."

More than anything right now, S wishes that there were some definitive reassurance he could give, a way of guaranteeing — for J's sake more than his — that that won't happen again. He can't, though. He was powerless against it the first time around, which only made it that much worse to watch his relationship slip away from him, any attempts he made to intervene just adding to the problem instead, and things wound up being even worse than he knew. Though he has much more awareness now, that's the very reason why he knows he can't offer any concrete, inarguable promises that J won't do any of that again. Somehow, he knows at once too much and not enough for that — far more aware now of what was going on with J back then, clueless as to where it came from or why. He still doesn't know what changed between them, only that it did, and then they were too far gone to try to pull any of it back.

That, though, is where he has an edge now that he didn't before. Back then, he didn't see it happening until it had already happened. Now, he at least has some idea of what to look for. They both do, he thinks, however much might still be unknown, might always be.

"It doesn't sound crazy," he murmurs, as understanding as he can. It may not make sense to him entirely, but he thinks he can understand that worry all the same. The fact that J has commented on it himself, though, and clearly isn't taking any of this lightly, gives S all the more faith that it might not be a terrible idea. If it is, they'll probably find out in short order, but they've been through so much since then, survived things that shouldn't have been survivable in both a physical sense and a metaphorical one, where their relationship is concerned. They're talking now in a way they'd stopped doing before. If they're both keeping an eye on things, if they're both trying to avoid the same thing, then they must at least stand a chance, even if what J is worried about is true on any level. "But even if that is the case — and I don't think it is, but even if — then we won't let that happen, right? We'll stop it before it does. We'll be careful. It won't just go from... this to that overnight. It didn't before."

He's pretty sure it didn't, anyway. More likely, he thinks it was insidious, so slow and gradual that it happened before either of them realized it. This time, if it comes to that at all, will be different. They'll both, he thinks, be aware of any shifts, anything that seems like a return to the way things were before J left him. It takes him a moment to realize it, but the rest of what J has said seems quietly promising, too, albeit in a way that S isn't quite sure how to articulate. He's thought about that particular aspect of things for a long time, actually, but without knowing the best way to discuss it. Part of that, though, was not knowing how to get into this subject at all, and they're here now, which makes it easier. "I think that's a good sign, anyway, isn't it?" he asks, a little quieter, something sadly, cautiously hopeful and so uncertain in his voice. "That you want to play."

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.

It's probably a little strange, how hearing J talk about not trusting himself just makes S trust him more. It does, though. As much as he hates seeing J upset like this, hearing the waver in his voice that gives away the fact that he's in tears again, there's something soothing about how obviously he isn't being dismissive of any of this or acting like it will just be fine. S wishes that J didn't have to doubt himself, but even if he can be a little naïve where J is concerned, he knows that it's not without reason. He'll just have to have faith enough for the both of them. After all, for his part, he wouldn't be encouraging this in the slightest if he thought things were likely to revert to the way they used to be. There's a element of worry to his deciding to step away from piano, but it's not as if he hadn't already done that. If he were as passionate as he used to be, as driven in his own less ambitious right, it might be different. As it is, for him, that's the part that doesn't seem worthwhile, a chance not worth taking. Without him there for J to compare himself to, maybe they'll both be better able to love it again.

"I think," he starts, taking a breath before he continues, "this seems like a good way of trying it." Shaken and emotional though he still feels himself, he means it entirely. J should be able to see how he feels about it, at least, and he doesn't think they'll come up with any better approach than this. Maybe things will start changing again, maybe it won't wind up working after all, but they'll never know unless they give it a shot, and he has to believe that they won't wind up in the same place they were before. They've come much too far for that, the belief a half-desperate one but present all the same. "We're actually talking now, right? So it's already different. As long as we keep doing that, we'll know if it seems like there's a problem."

After all, it wasn't the piano itself that was the root of the problem, or at least S doesn't think it was. The professor probably wasn't either, really, but he certainly didn't help, and he isn't here now to encourage all of J's worst impulses. There's no competition with him, no award to fight for, not even a piano in the apartment. Without that, he hopes, at least, that it won't seem like as much of an obligation as it seemed to become before, something J can't be consumed by simply because that isn't an option. That's the part that S doesn't quite know how to put into words, not least because there have been so many heavy revelations so far tonight. "And you'd be playing for fun now."

Maybe that's the problem in his case, too. When it became so emblematic of all that he'd lost, when J spent so long comparing the two of them, when it was something they'd once done together that wound up tearing them apart, of course it wasn't remotely fun anymore. S doesn't think it would be now, either, if he had to worry about it becoming a competition again, as he knows he would. It would be hard to play in front of J when he doesn't know if J would become convinced of S somehow being better than him like he did before.

J hadn't thought of it quite like that until S said it, but it's true. If he plays now, whether it's once or he goes back to playing regularly, it won't be like before. He has no intention of going back to school. If he did so, he wouldn't permit himself to study music again, and there really isn't anything else he wants to pursue. Maybe one day he'll change his mind and find a worthwhile path to take, something he'll enjoy without devoting his entire life to, something he can do that will help make a life for them. It just can't be music. There can't be any awards or competitions now, no scholarships, no prizes or benefits of any kind. If he plays, he'll do so simply because he wants to. No audience either, just S. It's the only safe way to proceed.

Because, for a long time there, that was what he played for — accolades, attention, the faint hope of praise, the desire to be told he was doing well. A professor who never cared about him, even as a teacher should care about a student.

A desperate grasping after the chance of knowing who he was again.

He's already said tonight that he's lost. That's part of what scares him. Figuring out the answer to who he is can't lie in music, which is where he long thought it was. He can't let himself go that way again. If he plays, he plays for fun, and god, it's been so long.

"That'll be different," he says, a bit more mumbled than he means it to be as he lets go of S's shirt to wipe his eyes. "I think you're right though. If we talk, it'll be okay, won't it? I'll tell you if it starts to feel wrong or I think about it like I used to, and you tell me if anything worries you, and we'll talk." He leans forward to press a kiss to S's cheek again. "I need that. Please. Even if I don't want to hear it, I won't get mad."

He's pretty sure S is still worried about that, and he has plenty of reason to be — enough that J reconsiders his own words. "I might be mad," he amends. "Or unhappy. But I'll try not to be and I want to hear it anyway." No matter how it will sting if it comes to that, it will be worth it if it keeps him from ruining this.

Despite his having just been thinking about that himself, S still finds that it hurts to have confirmed what he suspected to be true, that J hasn't been playing for fun in a long time. He suspects that it's more than that, too, that it hasn't been fun. How could it be, with the professor criticizing every note and a string of bodies the inspiration for J's last piece, with the prospect of awards hanging overhead? S never cared much about that sort of thing, prizing security over success, self-assuredness over accolades, but he knows J did. Even if he never entirely understood it, he knows it makes sense, too, in a way. J had more to prove than he did.

Here, at least, that won't be in the picture at all. No one cares about what their backgrounds are or the fact that J's parents weren't married. There are no teachers to provide overwhelming scorn. As far as he knows, there aren't even any prizes like the Gloria Artis to try to win, or at least nothing on the same scale, with the same level of prestige. They can't go back — he knows that, has told himself as much over and over — but in a way, it's like a return to the way things were at the start, or it could be, if this works. J used to play because he loved it, S knows he did. No matter how different some memories have come to look after all that happened, he's certain that there was once passion alongside the determination, excitement even with all the pressure he put on himself. Whatever his own relationship to the piano does or doesn't wind up being now, S can't help but want J to be able to have that back.

"I'll tell you," he promises again, quiet and a little wary, or maybe just increasingly self-conscious. J got mad at him so often before. That hasn't happened here, but it's still hard not to worry about the possibility of revisiting the worst parts of their relationship, when he could never even predict what might set J off or why. He has to try, though. It's worth the effort and then some. "I'll even try to tell you in ways that won't make you mad. I know... sometimes I just get worried and things come out wrong, but I'll do my best, I will."

He'll always, he thinks, be haunted to an extent by that last meeting of theirs, how it went wrong right from the start. He was so fucking concerned, even if he had no idea just how awful things had become, and he ruined his chances of doing any good within moments of walking through the door. There likely would have been no hope for them there anyway — a thought that, as usual, crosses his mind, hits a wall, and vanishes, nothing he can follow through to any hypothetical conclusion, just a fact in its own right — but he still wishes he'd managed to get that right, or at least not quite so wrong.

He wishes a lot of things, none of which he can do anything about now. This, though, he can do, give J the encouragement that he was lacking at the end, point out the ways in which it doesn't have to be the same this time around. "Different and better, I think," he adds, as close to optimistic as he can when they're both so wrecked. "To play for fun again. Right?"

J commits S's words to memory — for now, at least, though they might not survive whatever sleep they manage to get tonight. S is trying, has been trying for a long, long time, and whatever happens, however he puts it, J will have to do his best to remember that. Things come out the way they do because he cares so much, and sometimes that means S being calm or light to a degree J finds irrational or irritating and sometimes it means bursting out with some revelation that turns his world around, but it's always because he cares. If J can remember that, maybe he can behave himself better this time.

At what S says next, he hesitates, then nods. Even if he knows that it's true, it feels strange to admit to. It's been easy to couch his concern and his distance in terms of safety. It's much more difficult to face the way he actually feels and felt about music. It's too complicated a relationship to sum up neatly. "Right," he says, leaning his head against S's shoulder again. Hardly a moment passes before he laughs, wet and resigned. "If I get that far. It won't be fun the first time." He'll be too terrified to think of having a particularly good time. If he can enjoy it a bit, that will be a victory in itself. If he can do so without losing his mind and killing someone, that would be much more of one.

Or less of one, probably, if he's honest and not just dramatic, since it's much less likely he'll commit murder right off the bat. Even so, he doubts it's going to be fun, if only because, no matter how much he wants it back, the idea of it makes him feel a little sick, nerves twisting.

"It would be nice, though," he admits quietly. Everything felt so ponderous, so focused, for so long, every note he played, every phrase he wrote geared toward some specific end. Not having something to achieve is a bit frightening, too, but most things are these days. "Just to play."

Arms wrapping around J when he leans in again, S nods against his hair, quiet for a moment, thoughtful. None of this is unexpected. Even if it's never been said outright, he's read J's journal, and nothing in it suggested that he'd been enjoying himself at the piano for quite some time. Still, and despite the fact that it's been similar for him, albeit in a completely different way, it makes him terribly sad to hear. For as long as he's known J, J has loved the piano. Whether or not he manages to recapture any of that feeling now, S still hates the certainty that there was a time when that wasn't the case. Of course he wants to help J get that back now. Maybe there's some sort of irony in that when he's already resigned to leaving it behind for himself, but J should have a chance at least to see if he can get any of that spark back.

"You haven't in a long time, have you?" he asks, only half-aware of saying so out loud, his voice as soft as he can make it. It's something that's rattled around his head for a long time, but like so much else that's come up tonight, nothing he's been able to bring himself to say. Now, though, the subject is too present to be avoided, his hand slowly smoothing over J's back again as he speaks. This is what he should have said that day they saw each other, as they fell into yet another fight. It's what he meant. He didn't know, though, just how long it had been or how bad it was, and he was frustrated and confused. Instead, now he's just sad, obvious in how he sounds despite how quiet he is. "When did you last play because you wanted to? Or enjoy it?"

Even as he says so, he thinks it's clear that the question isn't one for which he expects a response. It's just about the point being made instead, though gentler this time, he hopes, at least, that it will be better received. S really doesn't think he could bear another fight, not now, not about this, but he can't hold it back, either.

J makes a small sound of protest, not because S is in any way wrong, but because he's right, and it hurts, and even if he was just thinking as much himself, J doesn't really want to think about it. It aches, deep and searing, to think about how something that was so vital to him stopped feeling good. There have been times he might have likened it to breathing, but it's more than that. Breathing is a simple necessity. Music was life itself, was something that brought him real happiness when he had little else, and later when he was able to share it with S, too. It gave him something he was good at, yes, and that gave him confidence, but it also just made him happy. How something that meant so much to him and felt so right could just... fizzle out and die — well, perhaps he does know, but he doesn't like it. Admitting it feels like admitting something in him died a long time before he killed himself or anyone else.

He knew that. Of course he did. It's part of why he's felt lost for so long — not just this year together, as he tried to find his footing again, and not just at school in the time they were apart, but in the last months of their relationship, when music was becoming less a joy and more a trial, a test he was always failing.

"That night," he murmurs, throat tight enough he has to swallow hard before he can say anything else. "Hearing you play, I — just for a minute, it was like I had to. Not because I did, but because I couldn't help myself, like it used to be." He takes a shaky breath, fighting against the way his jaw trembles at saying any of this out loud or even to himself. "I don't know. Before that, I don't know." It was a long time ago, he knows that much, and acknowledging that feels like his heart might actually be breaking. The thing they shared, the gift his mother gave him, the place he sought solace from a world that looked down at him, gone for so long. How the hell was he supposed to know who he was when such an intrinsic piece of himself was missing?

With S holding him so tenderly, his voice so soft and loving and sad, J doesn't know, either, how long he can hold himself together. He's not sure he'll ever get back what he once had. He knows he'll never be who he was. He's okay with that one, but the possibility that music will always remain tainted is a terrifying one. How can it ever be the same? He's lied and he's killed and he's hurt the person he most loves, he's turned his back on the things that really matter, and he's changed one of the most precious things he knew into something small and desperate, a means to an end that was ever moving further away from him. How can it possibly be what it was?

He expected it to hurt. He expected, really, exactly what J says — the second part, that is. S barely hears it, though, for how stunned, how pained, he is by the first part. All things considered, he probably shouldn't be. His answer would be the same, after all. More times than he can count, he's thought about that night, how it felt for just a moment like they got back a little of what they'd lost. It didn't even have to matter what they were to each other. Something was set right, and that was the important thing. Then the moment ended, and having that one little spark of hope so roughly extinguished might have been even more painful than all those months of silence, like losing something all over again, a rejection nearly as brutal in its own right as the one that followed. S isn't sure there could have been any worse dismissal than that, at the piano together, playing their song. It felt, at least, like it wasn't just him being shut down, but them, their history, everything that song meant.

Just looking back on it stings. Somehow, though, the context makes it even worse. Thinking about J feeling the same way he felt for that too-brief time, thinking about what they both lost — each other, for a time, and the music they once loved so much — is harder than he thought it would be. S can't say anything for a moment, feeling like he's been physically struck, like there's a knife in his chest again or hands around his throat. Determined as he is to be more open, he doesn't want to talk about this. J feels guilty enough as it is without S calling attention to just how much that part of that horrible night hurt him. He can't keep himself in check entirely, though, either, a tiny sob escaping him before he can help it. At least, with the subject at hand, with the night they've had, it should be an understandable enough reaction. Even aside from all that, he is sad, anyway — for the both of them, but especially for J. That he lost everything is something he can deal with. For J, though, it just doesn't seem fair.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, and he's not even entirely sure what he's apologizing for this time. For the way he feels, maybe, even if he doesn't intend to say so, or for the reaction he couldn't hold back, or for how much was taken from him. For the fact that, in doing what he set out to, reminding J of what they'd once shared, he probably only made things worse that night. For the fact that, even now, closer than they've been in such a long time or, somehow, maybe ever, there's all this shit they're always going to have to deal with, everything having gone as wrong as it possibly could. For his question, and for J's answer. "Maybe... maybe you can again now. Play and enjoy it."

There's something about that little sob that both cracks J's heart and fortifies him, makes him shake his head emphatically even as he sniffles. "No," he says, "no sorry." There really isn't anything for S to be sorry for tonight. Sometimes it's called for, sure, but not really that often and certainly not now. J sits up a bit more again, cautious as he moves to straddle S's lap, letting his arms drape over S's shoulders. It's been half a year now and he's still careful, so careful, any time he touches S like this, his hands drifting anywhere around S's neck or shoulders. One at a time, really, feels fine, but both — he's not nervous about himself, really, but he worries he'll make S flinch. Still, he wants S close, wants to be able to face him, determined to give some comfort.

As hard as all of this has been, as painful as the revelations are that S has given him tonight, those are comfort, too. It will take him time to figure out what it all means and how he feels about it, but it's something good, he's pretty sure. And even if that weren't the case, the honesty matters, and he loves S too much to let him sit and cry alone. If nothing else, they'll end up crying together.

Leaning down, he kisses S's cheek, brushing his nose along warm skin. "Maybe," he says, soft, tentative. "Maybe I can." He's not really convinced of it, but it's possible, at least, which is more than he could've said for a long time now. "I don't know. But I... I guess it's better I at least try and see." Otherwise he'll worry and wonder, and he's pretty sure that's as likely to hurt them both as his trying to play will. He presses another soft kiss to just the edge of S's mouth. As nice as it feels, kind of soothing in its own right, there's no intent even as he lingers except to offer some affection, something to keep S feeling grounded. He's not even sure, now he thinks of it, that that's a thing S even needs, except on those occasions when he panics, but J finds it helpful, at least, when he's upset or nervous or anxious, having S touch him gently, keeping him here.

"I love you," he murmurs. "So, so much. Whether I play or not, if it's fun or not, I love you." As badly, too, as he misses music, he'd mostly resigned himself to losing it. However it turns out, as long as they're honest with each other, it probably can't be any worse than it is and certainly it won't be as bad as it used to be.

Even now, despite how wrecked he feels and how tenuous his remaining composure is, there's a part of S that wants to respond petulantly, to echo J's words from a little while ago and say that he'll apologize if he's sorry. He is sorry, desperately so, for more than he probably should be and more than he would know how to put into words. It isn't worth the effort or energy to make some stupid point, though, when he's already trembling with the effort not to break down in full, stuck thinking about that one beautiful, terrible moment, the surge of hope swiftly followed by the sting of rejection, the few seconds in which things felt almost right again only to wind up worse than they were before. He doesn't want to talk about it. J doesn't need to hear it. S knows he's the one who just spoke of not having any more secrets, but this isn't a secret, exactly. They're both fully aware of what happened, just as they both must be aware of his having been hurt by it. Going into detail, telling J just how bad it was, would only be cruel.

He doesn't even want to make it too obvious, though that much may be inevitable, his breath wavering a little even as he slips his arms around J's waist, drawing him close. It's better like this, he thinks, able to see J and hold him without their being hopelessly tangled together again, the casual intimacy of it particularly welcome at a time like this. The warm, familiar weight of J in his lap feels like an anchor of sorts when he badly needs one, a reminder both that J is here and alive, and that they're together, having come such a long way from that night at the piano when he didn't yet know just how wrong everything had become.

"I love you," he echoes, sniffling, his fingers curling in J's shirt. "So much." It feels like an understatement. Simple as the words are, though, they're the best he can do, and it isn't as if they're untrue on any level. He loves J whether or not either of them goes back to playing the piano more seriously or not; he loves J more than he's ever loved music, whether playing or writing. There was a time when he loved that too, he knows, but it still never compared to how he loves J, something that's only grown truer for all they've been through.

Although he doesn't much want to talk about the night in question, he also feels like J's truth merits one from him in turn. Besides, it might help explain his own reluctance to return to it in any serious fashion. "That was the last time for me, too," he says, quieter, unsteady. "That night... when you came over to play... that was the last time I enjoyed it, too. The last time it felt right." It isn't that he dislikes it now. It's just that, rather than playing because he enjoys it, the little bit of time he spends at the piano at work is more an attempt to rekindle that feeling, hoping each time that he might love it the way he used to, always falling short.

He should have done this a while ago, J thinks, but he was too busy trying to soak through S's shirt with his tears to move. It feels good, though, S's arms around him like this, quietly right. As emotional as he may still be, he's a bit calmer now, better able to face S head-on, partly because he suspects S needs him to be in this moment, even if he'd never say so. He's yet to pinpoint the why of it, but he feels it, so he responds to it. And, anyway, it soothes him, too. He's safe like this, held in S's embrace, being reminded that he's loved.

It's not so easy to forget these days, which makes a big difference, but it still helps every single time he hears it.

Tipping his head up, he presses a kiss to S's forehead and one to the tip of his nose. He likes this so much, just being able to kiss S all over, soft and simple and adoring. It steadies him in the face of that small confession — not entirely a surprise, but still enough to make his heart ache again. Running a hand through S's hair, he nods slightly, more acknowledgment than agreement.

He was a coward that night in so many ways. Here and now, he knows how lucky he is, that they never would have gotten a life like this back home even if he'd behaved differently. He still wishes he had. "It hurt," he whispers. "I think I got so used to everything being awful, and then for a moment, it wasn't, and that was awful too." He shakes his head then, fingers brushing gently through S's hair. "I try not to think about it much, but I — I think you scared me. It felt like I could have that back, and then I thought it can't be like that." He was so stupid back then, so sure that S would hate him for all he'd done if he knew. It was the part of him that lies, he knows that now, but it felt real then — better to push S away than to be tossed aside. "Playing together. That stupid rickety bench in our studio. When we were kids and you didn't know I loved you and our hands and legs would brush as we played. I missed it so much. I still do. And I should have trusted you that night, but it was... I was so overwhelmed by everything then."

He's talking almost to himself by now, fingers still combing gently through S's hair, and he sighs. It occurs to him now that he gets, he thinks, why S apologized. "I'm sorry too," he says, "that you don't have it anymore either."

Whatever composure S might have been managing to hold onto, he loses then, leaning forward to rest his head against J's shoulder as he lets out another soft sob, tears beginning to fall again. Thinking about that time — hearing J talk about that time — is just too much. It isn't like he hasn't been happy these past few months, because he has, in spite of all of their newfound complications and the grief and the burdens he's chosen to help carry. If anything, he thinks they've been closer than they have in a long time, and that's been amazing. So has the freedom Darrow affords, the fact that they can be out now. Still, those blissful early days they were together — S has thought about it a lot, how it should have been the worst time in his life, at least up until that point, and then it was the best. He was hopeless, and then he was happy, giddy and in love, playing at being grown-ups with his best friend, their life starting sooner than most others', finding what he thought would be his calling as he realized his feelings for J.

Thinking about it now, how incredible all of that felt despite their hardships, how swiftly he lost it, how much he's missed it, hurts. Everything does right now, really, but this is particularly devastating. They've both lost so much. He lost everything, and he might even have lost more, and what he has now relies entirely on something absolutely impossible. He could so easily not have had this. He wouldn't have known, then, that J saved his life and the lengths he went to in doing so; he wouldn't have been able to tell J about the professor as he should have so long ago. Even with as close to J as he feels, tonight having been unexpectedly important, he's reminded all over again of just how very fragile this is, and the fact of that breaks his heart almost as much as thinking about their past does.

"When I didn't know you loved me and you didn't know I loved you," he corrects, muffling a watery laugh against J's shoulder through his tears. Every point of contact then felt electric, loaded with potential. He was nervous, falling for his best friend, not wanting to ruin their friendship when so much was relying on it, but he was hopeful, too. It was wonderful. "I miss it, too. Not... not that this isn't good, but..." J will know what he means, he thinks. Everything was so much simpler back then, even with the stress of losing his parents and the two of them trying to adjust to living on their own with hardly any money. "We're here. We're together. At least we have that."

As much as J hates knowing S is hurting, there's a certain measure of relief, too, in the way he reacts, in coaxing him into letting go, though it isn't as if that's what J set out to do. He just wants to try and be honest, and since they're already talking about the things he usually avoids, he might as well tell the truth as best he can. He can only imagine how terrible it must have been on S's side of things that night. Explaining how he felt then, what he was thinking, as best as he knows how won't fix it at all or take away that hurt, but he figured it might be good for S to know. God knows they have plenty enough reason to cry anyway, and while S doesn't exactly hold it in, he's careful, J knows that, so careful.

Even that little laugh, wrung out though it is, is sweet, and J smiles, however melancholy it might be. He turns his head, kissing S's hair, hand shifting to rest at the nape of his neck, his own usual caution half-forgotten in how tired he is and how much he just wants to hold his boyfriend. "I know," he murmurs. Things were hard back then in so many ways, but the uncertainty he felt was so normal — not being sure how best to help and comfort S, not being confident in making ends meet, knowing the way people saw him, trying to do well enough in school he'd be able to get into university. Difficult though it was, it was simple, too, and the happiness of those days was simple as well, real and vivid and uncomplicated and new. Of course they miss it. It's hard not to miss such a beautiful time in their life, one they'll never get back.

But S is right. He's always pretty good at holding onto that, and J tries to do the same — mostly does without really trying, for that matter, but when he's having a particularly difficult time, he reminds himself that they're here and they're together. They'll figure out the rest. "We do have that. We have each other. It's a lot more of a mess, but it's good, darling, really. And, honestly, as fun as that was in retrospect, I much prefer knowing you love me and that you know I love you."

This time, his smile is a little wider, and he lets out a rough little laugh of his own. "A lot of things are better," he adds. "We're much better at sex. And we've gotten even better at honesty, I think, and talking about things. And I think, now, I'm even more thankful for you." He'd like to say he never took it for granted, what they have, and maybe he never exactly did, but he went through a long stretch of time where he doubted it intensely. It would have been preferable never to experience any of that, but now, he thinks, he knows even more how lucky he is and how in love he is. No one else could ever know him like S does, but that's alright. He doesn't need or want anyone else to anyway.

Of the two of them, S knows he's the one more likely to try to find a positive way to look at things, often for the sake of trying to comfort J. The very fact of that makes this response mean all the more now. It also makes S that much more emotional, but at least he smiles against J's shoulder, his breath a shuddering little almost-laugh again. All of it is true, too. He knows all of it — he intends never to lose sight of it — but hearing it is still different, reassuring and overwhelming all at once. Needing to do something, he clutches at J's shirt again, fingers curling around fabric, holding on desperately, as if he might, this way, be able to keep J here with him. It's strange, really. Despite his crying, despite how fucking heavy everything they've talked about tonight has been, despite how sad he still is, thinking about how much they've both lost, he feels oddly good, too. It helps to have finally said all of these things. J has always been the only person he's ever really been open with, and letting down those last walls is more relieving even than he expected it to be.

"I can't believe you just said something optimistic," he says, deeply fond, as close to teasing as he can get, under the circumstances. "Or that you started with we're better at sex." It's true, of course. They were clueless then, just kids fumbling their way through it, but even that — figuring it out — they did together, just as they did everything else. He wouldn't have had it any other way. A bit more serious, he takes as deep a breath as he can manage, nodding as best he can without straightening. "But I think I am, too," he agrees. "More thankful for you." It would be impossible not to be. J was dead. That should have been finite, the end of their story. S will never stop being grateful that they got another chance to get it right. "I... I always knew how lucky I was. But this, now..."

There aren't even words for how unbelievably fortunate this turn of events is. When he really stops to think about it, S still feels like it can't be sheer coincidence that brought them both here, within a week of each other, just in time for him to be the one to find J, in a place that shouldn't even exist. The odds of that seem far too slim, and he doesn't want to think about how unlikely it would be that it all worked out this way and how easily they could have missed each other. It's just the two of them, always, like it was meant to be. The alternative is, despite the outcome, too unsettling.

"I don't care how much of a mess it is," he adds, voice still unsteady. "I want this, you, always."

J has to bite his lip to stifle his laughter, a little bit giddy from the sharp turn in mood, in being able to pull a laugh out of S. After everything they've talked about thus far tonight, it's a relief just to find himself smiling again. Every time things fall apart, he has this probably irrational but very difficult to shake fear that he'll forget how to be happy again. But, no matter how strange or worrying or overwhelming the things he's heard and learned, no matter how he'll need to adjust to seeing things differently, it really does feel good like this, being able to hear how much S adores him. Even before S finishes speaking, J can hear it in every word, love seeping into all of it.

"Always," he echoes, nodding, solemn for a moment before he catches himself smiling again. "And where else did you expect me to start?" He's not better at the piano than he was then, that's for sure, but he also has the sense not to make that joke. Besides, better isn't the goal right now, at least as far as music goes. There are far more important ways he can improve.

He ducks his head, kissing S's cheek again, nudging at him with his nose. "If I'm at all able to be optimistic, it's because of you, you know. You... I see things differently when I'm with you. You make everything a little brighter and warmer and... I don't care if it's a mess either." There are times when J is aware not just of how fortunate he is to be here or that S feels the same, but also that S is right, too. If S makes him this happy and he knows now that he makes S happy in a way he doubted for a long, long time, then what they have right now is a miracle that defies all logic. He can be a little bit cheerful about that now and then, even if his version of cheerful looks a bit skewed at times. "The fact that I'm here at all is because of you, Hyunie. I was ready to give up, but you make me want to keep going."

Even so, he knows, there have been times when it took sheer fucking will for him to pull through, but it's never yet been as bad as it was in that first week or so after he arrived, fluctuating between unbelievable happiness and stark despair as he remembered all he'd done. Time has made it somewhat easier to carry all of that with him, even if it still strikes hard now and then. But he knows he wouldn't have made it far enough to need will or to learn how to handle all of this if S hadn't kept giving him a reason to want to make that effort to begin with. "I'm glad, though. I like being here with you. Always."

It isn't exactly new, how even all the best things have a bittersweet element to them. S is just particularly aware of it right now, when everything hurts to some extent, J's phrasing doing nothing to stop the way S keeps crying into his shoulder. He knew that, of course, though he wouldn't have considered it that way himself. The state J was in that day he arrived here is something he couldn't forget if he wanted to, part of the fear he felt in response lingering even now, impossible to shake entirely — much quieter now, and easier to ignore, but still there. Still, the reminder of just how low J was, of how tenuous his existence was for a while there, is hard to bear. S doesn't like knowing how much has rested on his shoulders in that regard.

He tries, instead, to think about it as he framed it earlier. They saved each other. He wouldn't be here, would have died on J's floor that night, if J hadn't gone to such lengths to get him to safety. That much is an incontrovertible fact. He was almost dead. A few minutes more, and he would have been. It shouldn't be so hard to accept, then, that he might have done the same for J in another way. Besides, J's words strike a chord with him. Maybe that's part of why it hurts so much. Although he wouldn't have done what J did, what he might have done again, he was hopeless in his own right back then, what feels now like it was both another lifetime ago and just yesterday.

"Me too," he agrees, words half-mumbled against J's shirt. They're both a mess in the physical sense now, too, tear-stained cheeks and clothing, his nose running a little again from all the crying he's been doing. Similarly, it's both parts of what J has said that he agrees with, leaving him uncertain of how to clarify his own statement at first. "I like being here with you always, too. I..." He gives J's shirt a little tug. Before they go back to sleep, it might not be a bad idea to change, S thinks, but he couldn't possibly bring himself to move away from J yet. "I know it's not really the same. But I was ready to give up, too, before I found you again."

In a way, he alluded to as much earlier, saying that he didn't care anymore what happened to him when he went to confront the professor. There's every chance that wouldn't have ended well for him in some way or another, but it simply didn't matter. For a while before that, he hadn't wanted to have survived. He just never had the active desire to end it that J did. With a hint of a smile, hidden as it is for the moment, both a little lighter and a little more thoughtful. "You might think... I make everything brighter for you... but every time I've been at my worst, you're the only person who's ever been able to get through that. You did when we were kids —" He can't talk about it, what that song meant, too reminded of how much it hurt when J shut him down again in the middle of playing it. "And you did again here."

The thing is, J knew that, he's pretty sure. In the back of his head, he was aware that's the case, because S has told him before what it means to him that J has helped time and again when he was having a hard time, no matter how mild or serious that might have been. And J had thought, really, that he'd done a good job of coming around on these things this last half a year, that he'd gotten better at understanding that he can be good for S, too. Except it catches him off guard now. He's not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's just that there's a big difference between I'm not as bad as I thought at this and I make a meaningful contribution, between trying to undo damage and actively doing good. And this night has been a lot more on the second side than he's used to, his head still trying to catch up with the idea that he saved S's life, even if only from himself.

Cradling S close, he slides his hand into S's hair again, pressing kisses to wherever he can reach, soft and slow. It's hard to know how to express the things he's thinking, flitting too fast across his head. He wants to try, but it's tough just to pin one thought in place long enough to do so, even if they don't have quite the frantic nature they often do. "Doesn't have to be the same," he says softly. "You were alone, too."

He hesitates a moment, because what he wants to say sounds terrible, but it's also true, and he knows S will love him anyway. "That's the part that hurts the most," he admits. "Or... the part I did that does." There was a lot that hurt him that he didn't directly cause, a lot that pains him still, the way his mind works against him a constant battle, but that is, in his heart at least, the worst of his crimes. "That's bad, isn't it? I think the rest of it just... doesn't always feel real. It's too big and overwhelming, it scares me so I can't think about it, but... leaving you alone... twice, I..."

He wouldn't have chosen differently if he'd been sure S was still alive, he's pretty sure, but he's not completely certain. Even so, if they'd both lived, they wouldn't have had the chance they have here. It's a strange thing, really, to be thankful for.

"I love you so, so much," he murmurs into S's hair. "I'm here now, darling."

More times than he can count, S has wondered what it says about him that he's been so accepting of the things J has done. He can't say it's alright, exactly. Murder is still murder. But he understands why it happened, and he knows that, while J may have held the knife, he wasn't the driving force behind those actions, and he's willing to take all of that on. In much the same way, though he's never actually figured out what it means for that to be the case, he also knows that it doesn't really matter. He wants this regardless. He would love J regardless, an immutable part of his being. He may as well embrace it rather than hiding from it. Since the moment he first found J here, nothing else has been an option for him. Hearing J talk about it like that — that's bad, isn't it — sends all of that flitting through his head, but it's short-lived, really, hardly the point right now. He's made his choice, and he'll keep making it. Even with all the shit they've been through, he's never once regretted it.

Even weepy and disheveled, he still doesn't, shaking his head slightly. He's reluctant to move at all with J kissing his hair like this, the soft brush of his lips as reassuring as anything could be right now, but with the rest of what J has said, the question in it, he needs to look at him when he responds. Finally, slowly, as if trying to talk himself into doing so at all, he lifts his head again, rubbing his red eyes with one hand before wrapping his arm around J once more. He isn't ready to pull away yet, wanting to hold on while he can. If it helps him, he can only hope that the same is true for J, too, some measure of comfort in the face of so much that's heavy.

Besides, he's pretty sure he knows what he has to say here, and it isn't going to be easy. Whether or not he should is a bit harder to tell, but especially when they've shared so many truths tonight, S doesn't think it would be right to hold his first instinct back. "I know," he says before anything else, leaning in for the briefest kiss, hardly any contact at all, just enough to emphasize his own words. "I am, too. No matter what."

That, too, is the thing. He doesn't really care if it's bad or not that J feels that way, because it doesn't actually change anything for him, and he's pretty sure he gets it anyway. "And I don't think it's bad," he continues, words a bit slower now, carefully chosen. "You know me. You've... somehow seen me after that. I don't want that to hurt you, but I understand." He would probably say the same if their positions were reversed. And though he hesitates now, still a touch uncertain, that in itself is why this feels like something he has to say. "If that's bad..." His gaze drops, though he doesn't pull away at all, still holding J close. "Then so is this. When I read your journal, when I found out everything that happened... I had a easier time with the ones that were on purpose than the first one. The accident." It doesn't need any more detail than that. J will know what he means, and why that would have been the case; of that one thing, he's absolutely sure. "And it's not — I get that, too. But it's the same thing, right? It's different when it's... personal. It's more real."

The way he wrote about it, S isn't even sure if J remembers most of the others in any sort of detail, and he suspects that might be for the best, too. That, though, seems like a different conversation, too big to take on tonight when they're dealing with so much else for the first time.

That, too, is something J guessed was true. Even so, hearing it said out loud is difficult, his body tensing instinctively, as if that might somehow shield him against this. It doesn't though, not at all, and all he can do is stay where he is, holding onto S, fingers curled in his shirt, in his hair, and make himself take another breath and another. It's a good answer, really, an honest one, and that makes it all the more reassuring that S understands what he means. It isn't like it doesn't upset him to know what he's done, but it's just far enough from his life that it doesn't feel as immediate and too big for him to hold in his head for long. Sometimes the horror of it is overwhelmingly real and sometimes it feels sort of faraway like something someone else did a long time ago, and all of it is bad in a way that's too big for little adjectives. But none of it is as awful as what he did to S because S is real, solid under him, someone he loves. The aftermath of his crimes is hypothetical — he can imagine the outcomes, the grieving families, but he doesn't know. He knows what he did to S.

So he can understand, too, exactly why it was the accident that upsets S most of all. It still feels horrible put into words, leaves him feeling sick and ashamed. "I know," he whispers. If he hadn't gotten in that car that night, none of this would have happened anyway, not like it did. If anything, he thinks, a sudden spark of knowledge in a haze of guilt, he would have hurt himself instead, chasing after the inspiration he found when the professor held that knife to his throat — and, fuck, that feels different to think of now, somehow scarier in a different way entirely — because it wouldn't have occurred to him to hurt someone else. But of course it hurts S in a way the others don't.

S meets J's eyes so carefully, wary but kind all at once, and J can't bring himself to keep looking back, not just now. "I couldn't tell you," he says, still quiet, though a little louder. He lets out a small, rueful laugh. "If I'd done something else, I might have called you in a panic. But that —" He shakes his head. "I just couldn't. I really thought you'd hate me forever." He was wrong, of course, but he was wrong about a lot of things, and painfully paranoid, and S had — has — every reason to be upset that J would get behind the wheel drunk after what happened to his parents.

Which, really, is all the more shameful, given what little he knows of his father, but he wasn't exactly at his most clearheaded at the time. It's different here — no cars, no alcohol. He hasn't had access to either, but the latter, at least, wouldn't have been hard to obtain. It's just seemed smarter, safer, to avoid both. "I don't think that's bad," he adds after a moment, feeling a little distant but not wanting to let S think he believes otherwise. "It makes sense. More real, like you said."

Edited 2021-09-04 05:39 (UTC)

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