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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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They've never talked about him much. There wouldn't, S thinks, have been all that much to talk about when J never knew the man, seemingly more shaped by his absence than anything else. He knows a little — knows that he never married J's mother, obviously, that he was a pianist too, that he drank — and he knows, of course, the hell J was put through because of his background, as if it could somehow have been his fault that his mother was unmarried, but J has never seemed all that inclined to discuss him much, and S doesn't mind that. Back when he and J talked about everything, he always figured that J would know he could talk about his father when he wanted to. He figured, too, that that was part of the reason he latched onto the professor the way he did, one of the reasons S was so reluctant to tell J the truth about what was happening behind the scenes. Taking that away from him would have felt cruel, if only because he didn't know just how far the professor would go. Theft and blackmail were bad enough, but manipulation and murder went further even than he could have anticipated. J may have held the knife, but the professor was the one pulling the strings, and that, S thinks, is the worst offense by far. He couldn't commit his own crimes any more than he could write his own music.

"I know," he echoes, then shakes his head a little in turn, not pulling away to do so. "I can only imagine." There was a time, he thinks, when J would have snapped at him for something like that. And it's true that he really can't know what this must be like for J or what's going through his head, but he does know that it's a lot, and he can be here for it, gently stroking J's back and hair, keeping him close. "I know it is." If it's been a lot for him to carry around, wanting to say it but never knowing how or when to do so, it must be even more so for J to have to reconfigure his memory of everything, coming to terms with something unbearably huge.

Although he doesn't start crying again in earnest, he sniffles a little, ashamed, his face pressed to the curve of J's neck again. "And I figured he did," he says. "That was part of why..." Trailing off, he takes a breath, not as deep as he would have liked it to be. "Even if it had been safer... Even when I wanted just to say fuck it and tell you anyway, I didn't want to take that from you. I didn't want to be the reason you lost that. I didn't know how bad it would get."

J kisses S's hair again, hugging him a little tighter. "You didn't know," he agrees quietly. "You couldn't have." How could either of them ever have guessed how it would go? How could they have imagined that it would all lead to murder and madness, that the despair he already felt would be fanned into such flames? S did what he thought was best, and J doesn't know if he was wrong or not. Either way, it's done now, so it doesn't entirely matter. It makes sense to him, though. Of course S was protecting him the whole time — trying to, at least. Under other circumstances, he would have succeeded, probably.

That S understood the power such a connection would hold for J makes sense, too. Even if J has never had much to say on the subject, S knows him too well to have missed it. It just hurts to know an outsider could read him like that, all the worse for having it turned against him. "Not much to take anyway," he says quietly, trying to hide a quiet sniffle of his own. "I don't know. I just... wanted a little piece of him, I think. So he'd seem more real." He's always felt a little guilty whenever such thoughts pop into his head, as if he's somehow saying what he had was inadequate, when he knows he was lucky to have grown up with a mother who loved him so much. To want to know about someone who never even wanted him seemed ridiculous to him even then, and asking her would have been hard — not that she would have minded, he's pretty sure, but he would have been afraid to make her think he felt his childhood lacking.

With a tiny sigh, he plucks at the back of S's shirt, shaking his head. "I guess it's normal to be curious," he admits. "And you were probably right to keep it from me." It doesn't make a difference now, but he still wants S to know he thinks so. Easing back just a little, he kisses S's cheek. "You know I would have just made a mess of it, right? Stormed in shouting and pissed off, and then he would have outed us and we wouldn't have had tuition or a place to live." It still feels a bit strange to say, to acknowledge this new version of reality, but he knows it's true. S protected them both by keeping that secret. As much as J would have been angry then to know that S was hiding things from him, he can see the wisdom of it now. Maybe it would have been better if S had told him, maybe they could have come up with a plan, or maybe he would have known not to trust the professor so much, but he knows how stubborn he is and how protective he is of S. Even then, when he knows he must have been feeling increasingly miserable, that drive to keep S safe wasn't yet dormant. He would have wrecked it for both of them.

Even with how shaky he's beginning to feel again, S huffs out a soft, unsteady laugh at J's description of what he would have done. It's easy to imagine him doing exactly that, the other, more significant part of the reason he felt like he could never confide in him that particular truth. He hated every second of it, hated having to keep such a big secret from J when the only secrets he'd really kept from him before were, first, his being gay, then later, his burgeoning feelings, both coming out into the open before very long anyway. But he was certain that if the professor suspected that there was even a chance he'd told J about the theft or the blackmail or both, he wouldn't have held back, and he knows J too well to think for a second that he wouldn't have acted on it. It was an impossible situation. No matter how much he hated having to keep quiet about it, he thought he was choosing right, doing what would protect J, not what would ultimately leave him in the lion's den, alone and easy prey.

"I know," he says, and he hears the change in his own voice, how the sound of it wavers, his throat tightening. "So stubborn. I love that about you." He has, really, since the day they met, J outnumbered on the playground and fighting back against the kids who were bullying him anyway, unwilling to give up even though he didn't stand a chance. Of course, after the fact, it just seems now like all the more reason he should have told him. At least they wouldn't have gone down without a fight. At least they wouldn't have been fighting separate battles on their own when they could have been waging one war together, a united front against such a major threat.

They would have lost their apartment and their scholarships and who knows what else. They wouldn't have lost each other, though, and so much more besides. Now he does begin to cry a little again, unable to help it, clutching J closer to him without realizing that he's doing so. "We wouldn't have," he agrees, words and trembling breath muffled into J's shoulder. "But — but maybe you would have lived."

It isn't as if he thinks J's death is his fault, exactly. Like he just said, he didn't know how bad things would get, not until everything was already over, J dead and his journal in S's possession. Still, as awful as he knew it would be for them if they were outed, he can't help but wonder if maybe it would have been better than the outcome they got. They would have had no school and nowhere to live, their careers over before they ever had a chance to start. At least they would have had each other, though. Then again, that was always all he needed anyway; J was the one who wanted more. Even then, though, even if J got angry and blamed him and shut him out, he might still have been alive, without a slew of deaths on his conscience. That alone would have left them better off than they were by far.

Edited 2021-09-08 06:55 (UTC)

The words catch J off-guard, ringing in his ears, tears pricking his eyes before he's finished processing what S has said. "Hey," he murmurs, pulling S closer, as tight as he can, as if he can take away everything hurting S right now if he just holds him near enough. "No, no, we can't — we can't think like that, okay?" It would be hypocritical of him to say they can't think about the past when he's pulled back to it daily, when the evidence of all they endured is still written into their bodies. But if they start down the path of what might have been now, when they're already tired and sad, he doesn't know how he'll pull them back out of it.

"Darling," he says into S's hair, eyes closing tight. "We don't know what would have happened. And I —" He hesitates, unsure he wants to finish saying what he almost said. It's hard to be sure it could actually be at all helpful, but it's honest and that feels called for. "Maybe I would have. But I'm not sure. You saw how lost I was, how unhappy I was." They would have been together, and maybe that would have been enough to help him pull through. Maybe if he'd had something outside of himself and his own tunnel vision to cling to, something to push him forward, he would have found his own way out. Or maybe he would have been depressed and homeless, without any access to music, without any sense of hope or any idea of how to help support them. It was hard enough to find halfway decent work without anyone knowing he was gay. And the idea of his mother finding out —

He doesn't know. It's hard to know, to be sure, what she would say or think. He wants to believe she'd understand, that she, of all people, could get what it means to love someone you're not supposed to be with, to defy convention for love. But she'd also have had to live with knowing the danger he was in just by existing. And if she'd found that out from someone other than himself, it would have wrecked him.

"It isn't like that was the first time I thought about it," he admits quietly. He isn't sure if S already knows that. It's not like he talked about it then, but he hasn't really hidden it either. "What I did. I didn't... make plans or anything, I didn't really want to do it, it just... crossed my mind sometimes. So... maybe. Maybe not."

It isn't exactly comforting. It isn't exactly surprising, either, which might be the worst part. Back then, S knows, it isn't as if it was something he was often consciously worried about. Much like J has just said, it only crossed his mind sometimes, little flickers of concern when J was at his lowest points, when days turned into weeks without any apparent reprieve from all that darkness. Before it actually happened, he had no way of knowing it was something about which he should specifically have been worried. That fear was more nebulous, just that nothing would ever be enough to make J happy again. He certainly wasn't.

Now, it's different. Even a world away, safe with each other, only barely entertaining some hypothetical situation, having lost J like that once, he's terrified of doing so again, the very idea that much more real. It shouldn't matter when they can't change any of it — when he knows that J is right, that they can't think like that when there's no undoing what's been done and no way of actually being able to say for sure what outcome it would have had — but it hurts anyway. Just like they don't know what would have happened in their past, he doesn't know what their future holds, either. They've been doing so well these past few months, as happy as people who've been through what they have can be, he thinks, but that doesn't mean it will last. They were happy before, too, after they first became a couple, and then they weren't anymore. If things go in that direction again, if J winds up that lost and unhappy —

It's quieter now, at least most of the time, but the memory of the conversation they had that first day J arrived here is always in the back of his head. J didn't promise that he would stay, he promised that he would try. Still certain he can't ask for more than that, S is absolutely terrified that it won't be enough to keep him here.

He doesn't say anything at first, crying softly into J's shoulder, fingers clutching at J's shirt again as he pulls him close. What might also be the worst part is that it is comforting, in a strange, awful way. J didn't talk about any of this then. However much it might hurt to hear, it has to be a good thing that he is doing so now. "I know," he finally mumbles, just so deeply sad. "I know... we don't know. I just —" He's always had a hard time accepting that sort of helplessness. The thought that they might have been doomed regardless, that something would have come between them, that there was nothing he could do one way or the other, fucking hurts. "I just want you to be okay."

For a moment, it scares J that S doesn't say anything, that he simply cries like that. He knows very well how hard it can be to talk once he's in tears, but it still worries him. It's impossible not to question if he was wrong to say that, if he should have kept it to himself, if it hurt S too much to have been worth admitting.

He's not sure even after S finally speaks, but at least it lowers the volume on those concerns. They've promised each other honesty and trust. It's not always an easy promise to keep. When things were first starting to get bad before, he remembers keeping a lot to himself out of fear that he would worry S for no reason or upset him by talking about these things that went through his head, that had to be nonsense or that, worse, were true and impossible to fix. It's very difficult not to fall into that way of thinking again, a constant process of steeling himself over and over to tell S things he won't like hearing. But if S is brave enough and S loves him enough to listen, then J has to be brave and loving enough to tell him.

It breaks his heart all the same, hearing S say that, prompting him to sniffle again, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "Sihyun-ah," he says, low and sad and so very tender. "I know, darling." That is, perhaps, the hardest part, the part where he most needs to be brave — not brave enough to say these things, but to keep from saying things that aren't true. All he wants is to be able to tell S that he is okay and that this won't change, but he can't. It wouldn't be fair. He might be doing better in general, but he woke up in a panic, sobbing, not all that long ago, and he's clearly not alright, not completely.

"I want that too," he settles on after a moment. "And I — I think I kind of am. Most days are pretty good. And when they aren't..." He draws in a shaky breath that turns into a rough laugh. "Well, I have this. And it's so —" He thought he was getting through this pretty well, actually, that he was holding himself together admirably, which was what he wanted, to be the composed one so S wouldn't have to feel he needed to be that when he's clearly upset. Instead, he finds his jaw trembling, tears spilling over again, even as he pushes himself to continue. "It's so much better than I ever thought it could be."

That's the real thing that needed to change, he thinks, not what S kept from him, but what he kept from S. If he'd known how much it would help just to be able to talk openly, if he'd felt able to do that, to push past the part of him that always, even know, wants him to shut up and pretend it away, maybe then he would have survived. Maybe they would have stayed together, and everything would have been different. But he didn't, they didn't, it wasn't, and he dwells on enough of the past as it is. "I'm okay right now," he whispers. "Right here, holding you. Better than okay."

With the night they've had, S isn't entirely sure how he could even be capable of crying anymore. Now that he's started, though — again — it's impossible to stop, trembling a little and biting down hard on his lip to try to regain some semblance of composure, his face still pressed to J's shoulder. This part, what J is saying now, it isn't even bad. It's more, in fact, than he could have asked for. It just hurts, all of it, thinking about J's death and thinking about J being kind of okay now. He thinks he said in those first few days J was here, though it's hard to be sure now, that time such a blur, that he wasn't asking for or expecting J to be happy. He wants that, but only because he hates to see J as miserable as he was before. It isn't something on which his feelings are contingent, nor does he have any naïve assumptions that one day J will just wake up and everything will be fine. If anything, even something so small is so deeply moving that it keeps the tears coming all on its own. He's so scared and relieved and sad, and everything is such a fucking mess. That's part of why he held this back, he thinks. Part of it was just not knowing how to tell J, yes, but he thinks he must also have known on some level that as soon as he let himself dwell on it, it would destroy him all over again.

"It is for me, too," he says after a moment, voice soft and choked. "Better than I thought it could be." He thought he was going to be alone for the rest of his life. He thought he would never see J again, the one person he loves most in all the world. Even on the few occasions he's talked about it, tonight included, he doesn't think he's ever done justice to just how lost he was in those few months after J died and before they both showed up here, just a shell, really, hollow and drifting, fueled only by anger and a desperate need to get even the smallest amount of justice for his dead friend. For that matter, he's not sure even he realized just how bad it was until that was no longer the case anymore, his reuniting with J and the last half a year casting the time leading up to it in stark, horrible relief.

No matter what weight has been lifted from his shoulders or how good it is to hear J say such things, he still feels wrong somehow, something twisted and heavy in his chest. It takes him a moment, a few aborted deep breaths, to manage to pinpoint it, and another moment longer to convince himself to say it. Easier though it might be to keep this back, too, he doesn't want to fall into that again now that they've been so open with each other. And anyway, J knows him well enough that it probably speaks for itself.

"It's just... hard," he says, stumbling over his words, though he persists through his tears. "Hurts. Thinking that... we didn't stand a chance. That nothing we could have done..." He chokes back a little sob, still clinging to J in the dark, trying to fight off this unbearable feeling of helplessness. "I love you so much, and I know you love me, and it still might not have been enough. No matter what we did."

Maybe that part has been easier for J, he thinks, because he mostly assumed it was his own fault. Besides, the way he grew up, he's had to be pragmatic about the fact that life mostly doesn't work out. Most people don't really get a happy ever after, and it usually seems to him like life is a matter of or. Happy families struggle to bring in food, people with money marry people they don't love, and he was blessed with a mother who adored him and cursed with a father who made his life harder than it needed to be even in his absence. It made him stubborn and defiant, but it made him wary, too, knowing there was a chance it wouldn't matter how talented he was or how hard he worked, that the doors that open for people like him are incredibly rare and only just slightly left ajar.

It's not that it's easy for him to think of their love that way. It's awful, especially when he hears S say it. It would be nice to believe their love was an exception to all of that. But maybe it helped to have something to pin the blame on, to be able to say that they failed because he fucked up, and so maybe, maybe, things might have been alright if he'd done this one thing differently. This new possibility that someone else is at least partly to blame complicates things. And besides, whether the guilt is his or someone else's, the fact of it is that much of what he did, he did because of things he doesn't know how to control and didn't know how to address, some awful disconnect in his brain he still doesn't understand.

Life is cruel. He'd like for that not to be the case, but he's had to teach himself how to find happiness, how to understand that his looks different from everyone else's, that seizing joy where he can find it is its own act of rebellion. That doesn't make it easier to hear how much S is hurting, when his happiness matters even more to J than his own.

"We don't know that either," he says, gently stroking S's hair. "Maybe there was something. Maybe if I'd told you more then, I would have done better. I don't know." Again he kisses S's hair, breathing in deeply, letting out a stifled sigh. "But we're here, darling. Isn't that — maybe nothing would have fixed things in Seoul, and maybe something could have, but I love you and you love me so much that we're here. You know that can't be an accident, don't you? We couldn't make it work out in one world, so we found another."

It's a strange thing to be the optimist in this particular situation, but he's pretty sure he's right. It's not something he'll take for granted, but the fact that they're here at all means something. "Think about it," he murmurs. "Look how far we've come. I don't think it's so hopeless, Hyunie."

Hearing that, shaken though he is, S doesn't hesitate to nod in agreement, though it's an odd, slight movement when he isn't ready to lift his head yet. That much doesn't matter. They're here in the dark anyway, and he needs J to know that he agrees, that just because he's still all fucked up over the past doesn't mean he appreciates the present any less. If anything, it makes him that much more grateful for this impossible chance, knowing that it's the only one they could have gotten. He just hates the fact of that. As much as it hurts, there's something strangely easier about wishing he'd done things differently. Knowing he was so powerless, backed into an impossible corner, any choice he could have made the wrong one, is much worse. Keeping the secret, not telling J about the stolen music or the blackmail, left J unaware to the lengths the professor would go to and how dishonest he was, which certainly at least played a part in how wrong everything went at the end. Telling him all of it, though — preferable as he thinks those consequences would have been to the way it all played out instead, it still would have left them in an awful position, and might well have taken just as much.

They're here now, though, and they have each other, and he knows that's the most important thing. He's been the one to say so on multiple occasions now. For J to be doing so now makes him feel a little guilty, but it's comforting, too, the sort of thing he really doesn't think J would say if he didn't mean it. The hand in his hair is likewise soothing, something S tries to focus on for a moment as he tries to pull himself together yet again or at least catch his breath.

"There you go again, actually being optimistic," he mumbles, half-joking, though deeply fond and more than a little self-conscious. "But no, you're right. I know you're right. I do." Pressed close like this, he can feel J's heart beating, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes. That, too, he holds onto now, attempting to steady himself with it, not wanting to fall apart any further than he already has. His voice is softer when he continues, audible probably only because of their current proximity, voice still thick with tears but tender as well, deeply sincere. "Finding each other the way we did..." He gives J's shirt a little tug. "That's too much to be a coincidence."

He really does believe that, if only because he has to. The idea of all of it being happenstance, some unlikely turn of events with vanishingly slim odds of taking place, is more unsettling than any of the rest of it. There's reassurance, though, in thinking that they found each other here because they really were meant to be together, that not even death could keep them apart for long, fate rather than luck intervening on their behalf, the strength of the love they have for each other bringing them back to where they're supposed to be, here in each other's arms. "Told you," he adds. "It's supposed to be us."

"You did," J agrees, smiling as he hides his face against the side of S's head. It hurts, it really does, to hear S like this, but the whole thing hurts. It's all a mess. Of course S is still upset; they'll be carrying this with them the rest of their lives. He doesn't want S to feel so hopeless when he knows the pain of that helplessness, but he's not about to tell S not to cry now. "And it is. And I'm optimistic this once, okay? But just because... it's us."

He spent far too long feeling otherwise, denying his feelings, trying to pretend it away. He let himself be led astray and believed all kinds of wild lies and made things up to try and keep himself away. At the same time, he never really stopped loving S. He's always been better at S's side than away from him, or at least that's mostly true. There were a few days after he left where he felt bursts of relief just for having done something, but it's not like it really helped. He'd rather be like this, crying together, knowing the truth.

"I don't know," he says again. "If there was something we could have done... ah, there's a lot we could have done differently, but we don't know how any of it would have turned out. But we loved each other enough to find each other again. I think we did pretty well at that, right?" It is, he knows, not quite the answer S wants. J is fine with it himself. Really, he just can't imagine a version of events where things work out. Having made the choices he did, having listened to the professor, having been so desperate, not knowing how to treat whatever it is that's wrong with him, he's not sure any other outcome was possible, and he doesn't know how he could ever have changed any of those choices in a way that would have worked out. He would still have been broke and desperate and in despair. There wouldn't be blood on his hands, so they'd be much better off in that regard, so maybe he would have survived, maybe he wouldn't have.

And barring that, having made the choices he did, the very best they could have hoped for, he thinks, would be his having told S the truth, but then what? A lifetime of S helping to hide what he did? How would they have kept the professor quiet, another murder? It wouldn't have worked, it wouldn't have been right, and he wouldn't want any of that on S's hands too.

Even if things had, miraculously, all worked out, they still would have had to keep their relationship secret for decades. He's hardly about to say it's a good thing he killed himself — he has some sense — but really, it's all turned out pretty well.

"Trying to guess how things would have gone if we'd just chosen this or that instead," he murmurs, "it'll only make us crazy. And I've got enough of that for both of us already."

Again, S nods, not wanting to seem for a second like he disagrees when he very much doesn't. More than once, he's pointed out the same thing himself, that there's no sense in dwelling on what they could have done differently when they don't have any way to change the past or of guaranteeing what sort of difference it would have made. He knows it's true. It's just hard, when they're talking about all of this for the first time and when so much went so spectacularly wrong, to keep himself from entertaining the possibility anyway. There isn't much he regrets, especially when it comes to his relationship with J. They were happy for a while, and even before this place, he still would have said that finding J and being with him was the best thing that ever happened to him. Getting this back, they've been so fucking lucky, not to mention closer than they probably ever have been, that it wouldn't seem right to get hung up on the past and a variety of what ifs. Still, there are things he wishes he'd done differently — wishes he'd found a way to try to help J that didn't seem like he was taking it all too lightly, wishes first and foremost that he'd told J the truth from the start. He knows why he didn't, but it isn't as if holding it back did either of them any good.

But they're here, right where they're supposed to be, all wound up in each other, and J knows the truth now, and that's the best they can do, more than S would ever have expected. He's much too grateful to want to risk seeming like he isn't, no matter how rattled he is by everything that's happened tonight, still grappling with the weight of it.

"I know," he agrees, clarifying his own response after just a moment. "I know it will. And we did." His fingers staying curled around J's shirt, S smiles faintly against his shoulder. "Look how far we've come. We might be a mess, but..." A mess or not, it feels good to have this kind of honesty between them again, to have J with him, his presence alone making everything they have to carry now feel lighter. Even before everything he found out tonight — even before he knew why J tried to kill him in the first place, and that he still loved him all the while — S couldn't help wanting J with him when he was at his most unhappy, like he's told J before. It makes all the difference in the world to face this together, not alone anymore.

Finally, he lifts his head, turning it towards his own shoulder for a moment instead, though it makes no difference to the state he's in when he sniffles. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, not quite meeting J's eyes when he does. "It's not... I'm happy. I am. I'm so happy here with you, I don't want to seem like I'm not, and I wouldn't change this now." Even if he'd told J the truth from the start, even if they'd managed to get through that fallout, even if they'd stayed together, even if no one had been killed, they still have a huge opportunity here that they never did before, getting to be out together. Granted, J had more to leave behind back in Seoul than he did — his mother, the prestige of having won that award — and S still hates, too, that they both lost how they felt about music, to an extent, but they're safer here than they ever were before, and that goes such a long way on its own. "It's just... You know me." He smiles again, slight and self-deprecating. "Thinking that there wasn't anything I could do... But there is now."

It's not like it's a foreign impulse to J, the need to seize some kind of control of situations that are out of his hands. He doesn't like things being left up to fate or the whims of other people. Too much of his life was decided by people and circumstances that had nothing to do with him. Of course he wants to be able to make whatever choices he can, to determine whatever is his to determine. It's a desire that's often made him too contrary, too stubborn for his own good or anyone else's — self-destructive, really, at times. And he knows S is much the same, just differently, the way they so often are. He does what he can to mold the world into something he can handle and put right.

In the past, that often showed up in a way that J misunderstood, choosing an optimism and levity that rung false to him. It ran so thoroughly counter to how he felt, it struck him as absurd at best, almost cruel. He gets it now, he thinks. He's never going to be what someone else might call a positive person, never going to expect things to have a sunny side or a silver lining. But it's kind of like when he was younger and so fucking confident. Sometimes it was real and sometimes it wasn't, but he made it himself, this brash certainty, because that was what he could control. Since getting here, he's found he can, sometimes, do something similar and force himself to see some good in a bad situation. He might as well put that stubbornness to work somehow; using it to keep himself going on the more difficult days is the best thing he can do with it now, ineffective though it often is.

"I know, my love," he says, stroking S's hair, voice and touch gentle. "You don't have to be sorry for this. It's... it's all fucked up, and it's hard, and you can be happy and still be upset. I do it all the time." Honestly, it's a fucking relief to him to be able to do so. There have been far too many points in his life the last few years where it felt as if the world were painted only in monochrome, in single shades of emotion or no feeling at all. Sometimes his moods move dizzyingly fast, but he prefers that, most of the time, to only feeling one thing or only feeling terrible in various ways.

He'd really thought it would be like that forever, that his life would remain forever like that, all the color washed away, the music muted to distant notes and whispers. That had seemed, in fact, the best case scenario. That it took such improbable, magical events to draw him out of that is horrible, but he's still thankful it's happened. Dipping forward, he kisses S's temple. "I wish I had an answer," he says, "but it's horrible either way, isn't it? Either there was nothing we could do and we were... doomed back there, star-crossed, or there was something we could do and we completely missed it and everything fell apart anyway. I can think of..." He sighs heavily and shakes his head, rolling his eyes briefly and then wincing at the sting. It's a terrible combination, crying and eye-rolling, and he does too much of it. "Too many things I should have done differently. I... I should have told you everything. From the minute things started to change, when I first felt like that... I don't even know when it was. I'd know if I'd told you."

He doesn't really know anything that would have made it go away. Maybe if he'd tried then the things he does now, it wouldn't have gotten as bad as it did, such that he now wakes up sobbing in the middle of the night. He should, at least, have tried. If he'd told S what was happening in his head, maybe S could have talked him down. Maybe he would have felt okay opening up to J about what was happening with the professor, or J would have been less vulnerable to the things the professor said to him, been less easily swayed. They'll never know, and he is, really, far too tired from fucking up his sleep for the night to try and figure that out right this minute. Making sure S feels heard and understood is both easier and more important for now.

Although it really shouldn't be a surprise that J understands that feeling, S finds himself relieved all the same, letting out a slow breath to calm himself, leaning just slightly into the hand in his hair. J is right, it's all fucked up, and they've made the best of it — rather remarkably so, really, in his opinion — but that doesn't change how fucked up it was to start with, or the state it's left them in as a result. Even before they got into all of this tonight, J still woke up crying, haunted by what he did. Nothing S says or does can take that away and he knows it, no matter how forgiving he may be or what truths he may have to offer of his own. It still isn't anything he takes lightly, the fact that it was apparently J who got him to safety, whose urgency was the only reason he lived; most likely, it's going to take him a while to process this new information, a possibility he hadn't even considered. He hadn't, of course, worked out in any sort of detail what he believed had happened instead, but given that it was J who tried to kill him, it never occurred to S that J might have tried to save him, too, even knowing that J attempted to send him away, even reading J's journal and learning that J loved him still.

However fucked up they both know it all is, though, he still wouldn't want for a moment to seem any less happy or less grateful than he is. These past few months have been incredible, as good as that first while they were together if not more so for unexpected and impossible this reunion should have been. He has no regrets about what they have now. He just also wishes he'd gotten things right the first time around — told J the truth, figured out that his attempts to help were doing more harm than good and found some alternative, anything to avoid an ending as tragic as the one they were met with. The way things all played out, J is right about that, too, that it's horrible either way. Just that hurts.

But J's fingers are soft in his hair, his lips gentle against his temple, and of course he gets it, because S has seen the same in him, too. So much of the awful shit they've dealt with has been coupled with something good, or maybe the other way around. Those first few days J spent here especially were a roller coaster, some of their highest highs and lowest lows, despair over everything that happened interrupted by the euphoria of getting back together. They're so, so lucky, more than should even be physically possible. That doesn't change what happened, the grief he still carries, both for J's loss and, in a way, for the first go-round of their relationship.

"I can, too," he nearly whispers, a bit hoarse. "Think of... so many things." The example J has given now, though, no matter how much a part of S wants to wish that J had told him then, too, isn't something he thinks they can put in that category. Frowning thoughtfully, he rests his forehead against J's, still just wanting him close. "But it's... hard, I think," he says slowly. "To know that something is changing until it's already changed. I didn't see it at first. I don't know when it started, either." Trying again to dry his cheek with his shoulder buys him a moment's time to take another breath, his chest still aching from crying so much and, probably, from exhaustion. "I don't want either to happen again." His voice is smaller still now; he feels almost painfully young, reminding him of when he and J first got their apartment together, and he was excited about moving in while also struck anew by the reality of having lost his parents. "I don't want us to be doomed or miss what we should do and fall apart."

J nods a little, still running his fingers through S's hair as he does so. "Well, we're not doomed," he says, almost casual as he brushes that thought away. "I kind of thought we were, but we're here, so I'm pretty sure that rules that out. And..."

The rest takes more thought, more care in how he pieces together what he thinks and how to say it, so he's slow, dragging out his words, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't think we'll fall apart either," he says. He can't promise that. He thought he could last time, and he would have been wrong, because life is a series of surprises, and sometimes those surprises are terrible. Still, he's reasonably sure that it won't happen this time. "I might. But I don't think we will."

He's more confident in them now than he's ever been, which is saying something, given how they started and how much more sure of himself he was in general back then. He's also more fucked up than he was then, in ways he'll never be able to put right, but he's learning how to live with that. "I don't know," he continues, "if I'll notice it getting worse at first. But I know what to look for now, sort of. How I start thinking. I hear it now and I try to tell myself it isn't true instead of just believing it. I tell you when it's bad or if something's bothering me or I just need to get something out of my head. I'm learning. So are you. It's not like it's just gone, you know it isn't. But we aren't falling apart. And I'm not letting this bullshit take me away from you again."

He'll fight his own fucking brain if he has to. He doesn't know how exactly, but he will. Whatever it takes to keep going, to survive, to be with S, he'll do it. If they can't believe in anything else, they can believe in their love and their own foolhardy stubbornness. Last time, he was under attack on too many sides, but he knows the enemy better now, and he knows how to fight.

At least he can breathe a little easier now, worn down though he still feels. Part of it is almost certainly just from lack of sleep and from waking up so abruptly, though S is glad that he did. He wouldn't have wanted J to have to deal with the aftermath of that nightmare alone, and the conversation they've had as a result of it has felt like an important one on several levels, bringing to light things that he never would have guessed and that he knows he needed to say. No matter how much some of it has hurt, it's better to have everything out in the open at last, the two of them entirely on the same page for what must be the first time in such a long time. These past few months, despite the hardship of them, have been wonderful; he's often thought that they must be closer than they've been in years. If that was true before, it could only be more so now, the biggest of his secrets no longer his alone to carry. There may be things that will never need to be said, but the significant things are shared now, the way it always should have been.

"I love you so much," he murmurs, swallowing hard, lifting one hand for a moment to brush the backs of his fingers along J's cheek. Even in the dim light of their bedroom, disheveled and tear-streaked, he's beautiful. Letting out a soft, wry laugh, one that isn't especially amused, he shakes his head a little. "I definitely thought we were. Doomed." He woke up from a coma and J was dead, and he had no reason to believe that that wouldn't be the end of their story, as tragic an ending as any relationship could get. "I'm so glad I was wrong."

He wasn't, really. Without this place, he wouldn't have been. He thinks J was right a moment ago, though, that they did this somehow, loved each other too much to be kept apart and so wound up in a place where they could be together again. "And you have me. Whatever happens. Even if all I can do is be here, I will."

J closes his eyes, head tilting into S's touch. Of course S thought it, too. He had even more reason to than J did. Or, well, since J at least somewhat knew what he was doing, he had the same amount of reason but from a very different direction. They shouldn't have gotten this chance, but he plans to make the most of it since they have it.

"Whatever happens," he agrees, softer now, a murmur tinged in drowsiness. With his eyes open, he's fine, and he's far too wound up to go back to sleep, but he's still worn out. Even having had this conversation, he's not sure how he'll convince himself to sleep again anyway, close on the heels of a nightmare like that. Just because S knows the truth now and thinks it says something good about him doesn't mean J's brain has fully adjusted to that yet. It's going to take some time for him to process that, and there's a hell of a lot else to take in while he's at it.

"That's good, though," he adds after a moment. "That's a big difference. That you know that might be all you can do, that I know that's actually so much more helpful than I thought it would be." He opens his eyes again, blinking blearily. "Like I said, we're learning." It's still terrifying and there are still times when he feels painfully alone with all of this. But they're specific occasions, not every waking moment, like it once was. S's presence may not chase it all away, but it certainly makes a difference to know that S is at his side and that he doesn't expect J to just get over things, no matter how irrational his fears or worries might sometimes be.

Thumb brushing along S's cheek, he leans in and kisses him, very soft at first and then a little harder, though he mostly keeps himself in check. It's tempting to pursue more, to kiss S more hungrily, after this conversation and the weight they're both carrying, but he thinks they're probably both too exhausted for that. Still, there's something deeply reassuring about the warm press of S's lips, salt-tinged though they are. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out. Together."

Any response S could give gets lost, at least temporarily, in that kiss. It's unexpected at first, though perhaps it shouldn't be. After all, it's hardly the first time they've gone from crying to kissing, or that what was evidently intended to be something soft and brief has turned into more. With the night they've had and everything they've talked about, having started, it's difficult to stop. He inhales sharply when J draws back, nodding without pulling away. "Together," he echoes, hushed and intent, and then leans in for another kiss, one that's tinged with desperation, as if by kissing J, he might be able to keep him here.

With as tired as he is and knows J must be too, anything more than kissing is almost certainly going to be out of the question. They've both barely slept, after all, and that would be draining enough even without all the emotions that have followed. It's relieving all the same to chase after this, just for a moment, proof that they're here and they have each other, that despite all the odds being stacked against them, they made it. Whether they really were star-crossed from the start or just made all the wrong choices, they're back where they should be now, having saved each other and found a way back where they belong, defying even death to do so. He doesn't intend to let anyone or anything come between them like that again, and somehow it's easier to say so like this, his mouth pressed to J's and fingers clutching at his shirt again.

Breathless again when he eases back, though for a much better reason this time, he stays close. In a strange way, he wants to hold onto this moment, not for his own sense of determination but for J's. J might be the only person more stubborn than he is, but hearing that stubbornness spun into optimism is both touching and reassuring, and both go a long way right now. "I... I'll probably always wish I could do more," he adds belatedly, a little sheepish. "But I know that might be all I can do. And I'll do it, always."

"I know," J murmurs, fingers running through S's hair, tracing the column of his neck, anything to keep touching him, small reminders of the solidness of his being. "I always want to do more for you too. Feel like I should be able to. But it helps so much."

He knows how awful it can feel. When S's parents died, he felt lost, too, partly because he'd liked S's family, mostly because S was in such pain and there was nothing at all he could do about it. He did what he could, but that mostly amounted to staying at S's side and trying to give him little reasons to smile. But that, he knew, was an ache he could never undo. All he could do was be there. This, whatever it is that's wrong with him, it isn't grief, except perhaps for who he was and could have been. It's a similar kind of situation, though. Things can be done to temper it, soften it, but mostly all he can do is learn to live with it, and all S can do is be here, listen, love. That's everything, though.

"Even if it doesn't seem like enough," he says, "it means a lot to me, Sihyun-ah. I told you, you make me feel safe." Safe to open up and be honest, safe to be scared and small and bewildered, safe in anger and in angst and even in those days where he wishes desperately he could feel anything but a wide open emptiness. And S opens himself up in turn. It's not easy, J knows, to sit with the knowledge of helplessness or to watch someone he loves hurt, but he does it, again and again, and there's something so bruisingly beautiful about that.

He's tired and fragile and confused, the world too full of new information he doesn't quite understand yet, bursting with betrayals, but he's strangely hopeful, too, feeling fortunate in spite of it all. In the dark, he can't see how S's cheeks must be flushed and tear-stained, his eyes probably bloodshot and dark shadowed. He knows that must be so, but what he sees instead is the way S looks at him and the slight curl of his lips and the dim light catching in those beautiful eyes. That's what this is, really, finding the beauty in the darkness and in the light, knowing they might look different though they're the same. Unwilling to resist, he leans in again, hand sliding to the back of S's neck as he kisses him. He likes it when S kisses him like that, so certain and wanting at once, keeping him steadily tethered to this world, and he wants to give that to S, too, that sense of stability, the reassurance and passion both.

He should be careful. He should, at least, try not to get too carried away, given the circumstances of all of this. S is pretty sure, though, that that couldn't happen right now even if he wanted it to, and it's no reason not to kiss his boyfriend, feverish and yearning, a plea and a promise rolled into one. He'll be here, always, no matter what happens. Even if they lose each other again — and he prays that they don't, doesn't want to think about it now, but if they do — his heart will still be J's, the bond between them an indelible one, enough to reunite them when everything and everyone, themselves included, seemed determined to keep them apart. If nothing has changed that yet, not death and not attempted murder, then nothing ever could. He's sure of it.

The way he kisses J is at once both representative of that, steady and sure, and a means of trying to keep him here. Maybe he makes J feel safe, but in spite of all the reasons why the same shouldn't be true for him in turn, it is, and he feels especially so like this, wrapped up in the man he loves, the two of them so entwined they might as well be inextricable, having made it through further tumult to solid ground. As long as they have this to come back to, he thinks — not the kissing itself, but what it means, the two of them each other's — they'll be alright. If they can make it through what they have so far, they have to stand a chance against anything else. If nothing else, they're both too stubborn for that not to be the case.

Although he knows he should stop and pull away and catch his breath — that, really, the two of them should go back to sleep, though that seems unlikely to happen for a while — he doesn't want to quite yet. Just for another moment, he wants this assurance that J is here and whole, that everything they've talked about is behind them now. Or, well, maybe not behind them, because they'll carry it with them still, both of them as marked by it as their bodies are, but they've still made it to the other side. He isn't dead, J's attempt to save his life successful. There's no one here who could or would try to ruin them, no blackmail overhead, no theft. J is alive, even though that alone should be impossible. They've had months together again now, but that's something to make the most of, even if only like this for right now.

J is aware that he should probably pull away, knowing all too well how easy it is to get caught up in this, but he just doesn't have the will to do so. With the way S holds him and the hunger with which he kisses, J can't help himself, melting into S's embrace, lifting his other hand from S's shoulder to cradle his cheek instead. It's enough to tell him that S is seeking the same kind of reassurance he is; if that's the case, there can't be any harm in giving it. They're too tired to do more than kiss anyway, and even if he turns out to be wrong about that, which wouldn't necessarily be a first, S is planning to call out of work. Besides, though soothing S calmed J in turn, he needs the comfort, too, of how solid and real S is in his hands.

With a soft, wanting sound, he slides his hand from S's neck into his hair, tugging S's lip between his teeth. This has been, really, a far better and more productive conversation than anyone should ever expect to have about such fraught topics on so little sleep, and so, he thinks, they deserve to be able to make out for a little while. It's not like he's all that coherent as it is, and, god, it feels good just to put all of that aside for a moment. They'll never outrun their past, but they don't have to stay living in it when right now is so good.

"I love you," he says, mumbled against S's mouth, though it's a few moments more before he actually stops kissing long enough to rest his forehead against S's and catch his breath a little. "Love you so much."

Just a few moments ago, S had finally begun to catch his breath after all that crying. Now, he's thoroughly breathless again, holding fast to J, a desperate attempt to try to anchor himself. There's a part of him, in spite of the hour and his exhaustion and the headache that's setting in from the combination of that and how emotional he's been, that wants nothing more than to keep going. To lose himself in J for a little while, to think only about the fact that they're here and together, not what came before, or maybe just not to think at all. He has enough sense, though, to know that neither of them would likely be particularly capable of following through on that right now. It's enough, anyway, just to be here holding each other, safe in each other's arms, untouchable. Now that they're together again, back where they belong, the secrets that at least helped tear them apart before out in the open, no one could stand a chance at coming between them now. He has to believe that.

"I love you, too," he murmurs, not pulling back any further than is necessary to speak. After a night like the one they've had, that hardly seems like enough. J will understand, though, he thinks, that the words themselves don't do justice to the sentiment behind it, true and yet a vast understatement at the same time.

Again, S thinks that he should stop, try to get settled, regain some of his senses. At some point, they really do need more sleep, though just thinking about it, that still feels impossibly far out of reach. Tired as he is, he's much too wound up for that, still shaky, if much calmer, too. Unable to figure out what the best move is, as far as what he might actually be capable of, he leans in to kiss J again instead, soft this time, brief. "So much."

Even as J's pulse races, he finds himself much more relaxed now — more than he was minutes ago, much more than when he woke up. He still feels so safe, wrapped up in S's arms, shielded from anything that might try to hurt them. They tried so hard to protect each other before, he knows, and they messed it up, made the wrong choices, though he doesn't know if they were entirely wrong to do so. He should have known better, understood that S would be able to handle the truth of what he felt, though he also knows he wasn't exactly clear-headed back then. And maybe S should have told him about the professor, but he can see exactly why S wouldn't have, and he can't fault him for it at all. From now on, though, he decides, keeping each other safe has to mean telling each other the truth. They know better now.

He doesn't so much draw back as shift, drifting away from S's mouth to brush his lips off to the side instead, tracing the line of his jaw, planting another soft kiss just below S's ear. He needs a moment not kissing S on the mouth or he'll keep going, he thinks, and no matter how appealing the thought is, he's not sure he's got the energy for that. Instead he trails drowsy kisses along S's skin, nosing at his neck. Every touch serves as a reminder he's here — that S is, real and vital and alive and safe under him, and that he is, too, flesh and blood, not just some sad, tired ghost or idea. He is, perhaps, more vibrantly alive here than he was for years there, which is probably ironic since he's also died once now.

It might not be irony. It might be a different thing. He can't remember, because it's late and he's addled and he likes the familiar taste and feel of S's skin too much to think about the semantics of it. "I'm glad you woke up," he murmurs, smiling against S's shoulder. "I mean, I was probably being loud, but I'm glad. I was... it was really bad. I feel a lot better."

It's strange, or it would be if it weren't a juxtaposition that's grown familiar these past few months. The way J keeps kissing him, lips soft and addictive down the curve of his neck and his shoulder, is a stark contrast with what he says. Vague as the words may be, S knows what it means, after all. No matter the calm they've settled into now or the nights that took a similar turn, he doubts he's likely to forget anytime soon the particular ache of waking up so suddenly to find J in such a state. Really bad seems like an understatement, but he suspects J is as aware of that as he is, and he doesn't really want to start rehashing all of that now. He knows what the dream was, why it had J so badly rattled. Grateful though a part of him is to have found out what he didn't know about that night, he still hates that J has to be so haunted by it.

He's still short of breath after kissing his boyfriend, though, and against his better judgment, can't help but encouraging him to keep going, head tipping to the side in an implicit invitation, a soft hum in his throat. There's really not much more they should do right now, or more they would be likely even to have the energy for, but with all the turmoil they just went through, he hardly thinks he could be blamed for enjoying a moment of peace and intimacy. They're here and alive and safe; somehow, despite all the odds, they made it. His pulse is just a little too fast under the gentle trail of J's lips, and that's the case because J saved him, and that fact alone — touching and overwhelming — is enough that he's tempted to throw common sense to the wind.

"I'm glad I woke up, too," he agrees, just as soft, fingers winding into J's hair. "If it's bad — even if it's not that bad — you can always wake me up, alright?" He's said as much before, he's sure, but it feels important to reiterate right now even so. The lost sleep, the time he's already planning to take off work, it's worth it to be and to have been here for J. It would be even without all the revelations that have come to light tonight. "Anytime."

J leans his forehead against S's neck for a moment, nodding. "I know," he says, hoping he says it right, the way he means it, clear and sure, accepting that offer for what it is, as earnestly as it's given. There's no more need to hide. He has no reason now to pretend he feels anything other than what he feels, no matter how terrible it might be, and if he hides anything at all, it's the details. S knows enough, more than he really needs to, about the things J did. There's no reason to dwell on the specifics of his crimes. It's horrific, knowing what he did, knowing that S knows, but it's a kind of gift too. There's a freedom in knowing S takes him exactly as he is.

"It's not usually that bad anymore," he murmurs, though S knows that probably about as well as he does. He's been doing pretty well these last few months, slowly settling into a life that looks more like an ordinary one. Even so, he probably would have woken S at some point deliberately. "I wasn't awake enough yet to wake you." But S's hand is soft in his hair and his neck is stretched bare and close, and J can't help it if the conversation doesn't quite match what he's doing. It isn't so much that he can't resist as it is that he doesn't want to. Sensible or not, trailing kisses along S's skin is calming for him, a tangible reminder they're both here and safe. He scrapes his teeth lightly along S's neck, stopping to suck gently at his skin, and then a little harder when he thinks distantly to himself that S won't be going to work tomorrow.

When he first woke up, he didn't want to wake S, he thinks. He's pretty sure that's so, at least. He has a vague memory of feeling like he wasn't allowed to touch S, like it wasn't safe for him to do so, but that's gone out the window altogether now, fingers curling in S's hair.

Again, S's response gets lost for a moment, waylaid by the little whine that escapes him, unbidden, when J's teeth scrape his skin. They should be careful here, hold back in the name of not getting themselves too wound up. At a time like this, emotional and with good reason to be clingy, it would be too easy to let desperation change forms. Even knowing he plans to stay home tomorrow, though, or maybe just for the rest of the week, citing illness as an excuse, it's late and they're tired. J's mouth feels so good against his neck, though, and he doesn't give a fuck right now if J leaves a mark or not. It's that kind of night, he thinks, when it goes a long way to have some sort of physical, visible proof that this is real, that they're alive and together, a tether to the present. He doesn't plan to go anywhere for a day or two, and it hardly matters if anyone sees anyway, a small spark of defiance surging up within him, perhaps as a result of everything he confessed earlier.

It takes a moment for him to refocus on the subject at hand, keeping his breaths as slow and as even as he can in an attempt not to get too distracted. Still, with his head still tipped to the side and both of them still holding onto each other, S is hardly discouraging J from continuing. "I know it's not," he says, quiet in turn. He's been here, after all, aware that there haven't been many bad nights lately, and certainly not as bad as this. "And of course I don't want it to be. But when it is, it's okay. I'll be here."

He tried to be before, but J wasn't really letting him close enough back then. Strange as it may seem, there was so much less that was wrong then, too, for both of them. At least now, as much as he hates seeing J in the kind of state he was in tonight, they can weather the worst of it together.

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