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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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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.

J hesitates a moment, nudging into S's shoulder, catlike, and nods. Months. They've had months and there's so much openness between them now, and even though it isn't easy, even though he sometimes feels the old instinct to hold back, he's been so honest, and S has held his hand through it all, often literally. All that time, all that proof that's true, and even so, it helps so much more than he knows how to explain to be hear those words again.

"I love you," he whispers, head tipping up, lips brushing S's jaw. He wants to thank S, but that isn't quite right, he knows. It's the same as how they keep telling each other not to apologize. This is part of love, support and forgiveness constant companions, but that doesn't mean it's easy or that he wants just to let everything go unspoken. If he's supposed to share the bad, he wants to share the good, too. Still, thanks doesn't really cover it, is neither adequate nor accurate. He presses a kiss to S's cheek, to the corner of his mouth, to the tip of his nose. "I know I've said it before, but... that helps, it really does."

He told S once there were things he'd need to hear again and again. Why it is that, with so much evidence that S meant what he said, that's one of them, he doesn't know, but it is. Again he runs his hand through S's hair, bringing it to rest at the nape of his neck. "When I first woke up," he says, then shakes his head. "Ah, I don't think I was really awake. I don't know, there are times like that where I still feel... like I might be a danger. Or like I don't want to be, I guess. Like I shouldn't get to have this." He stops again, biting his lip at that. That part, he didn't really mean to say, wasn't fully thinking about, but it's still there. It's something, he thinks, that might look different tomorrow, now that he's seen what he did that night through S's eyes. For so long, though, that's flickered up in the moments when his mood pitches off-center again.

He is, now that he's said it, not even entirely sure what his point was. He's thinking out loud more than anything else. "But I do," he murmurs. "We do. You're here." He should probably stop and let S respond, though he's not looking for any particular reply, but being tired and emotional enough to say things without much thinking about them means being likewise tired and emotional to do things without giving them much thought, and so he follows that with a kiss, lips finding S's again.

It isn't, S thinks, the first time he's heard J say something to that effect. It hurts all the same, not because he doesn't understand it but because he does. Of course, he doesn't agree in the slightest, but still, he can see why J would feel like that. His face falls a little, but he nods in agreement to the part that follows. As he's sure he's said before, it isn't about who does or doesn't deserve what, the whole situation at once more complicated and more simple than that. They both want this, and S is fully aware of what that involves, and anyway, though it's probably not really his place to decide, the way he sees it, for J to have to live with the memories of and the guilt over the things he did is punishment enough. It's not like they've just carried on as if nothing happened. But depriving themselves of this wouldn't bring back the dead, and there's more to it than that anyway — the professor's involvement, his own survival, both things that came to light tonight. Hard though it may be to hear, at least J isn't letting the notion that he shouldn't have this keep them apart.

Although he meant to respond, it quickly becomes more important to kiss J instead. S leans into it, gentle but sure, not wanting to pull away just yet. Even as he does, with the arm he's kept wrapped around J, he reaches up behind him instead, hand resting over J's where it sits against the back of his neck. A tiny shiver runs through him, but it's a wholly meant implicit sign of trust, as close as he intends to get to discussing the particulars of what J did to him. Encouraging J to keep his hand here on his neck says more than he could ever put into words about how he feels on that subject. The caution that remains — he wouldn't exactly want both of J's hands wrapped around his neck, and they still haven't had sex with him on his back and J over him — isn't because he's worried about what J might do but because he doesn't want to risk either of them having an unintended, instinctive reaction.

Right now, there's no risk of that, his lips parting to deepen the kiss gently. Again he tells himself that they should stop; again he lets it go, though he does draw back at last, only enough to take a breath. "We do," he echoes belatedly, nodding as best he can with his forehead resting against J's. "I am. Always."

There's a fraction of a second where J nearly panics and doesn't even know why, and then, because S keeps his hand in place, he realizes he thought S was going to move his hand. It's just a moment, briefly tensing and then relaxing, but the relief that follows is immense, enough for him to lean into the kiss more fully. It is, probably, a sign both of how tired he is and how far they've come that he even feels like he can touch S there for more than a moment or two at a time. That S encourages him is at once touching and exhilarating, all of it entwined with the welcome relaxation of realizing he's okay. They're okay. In spite of everything, including the fact that there are plenty of ways in which he emphatically is not okay, they're alright.

When S draws back, it isn't far, and still it's J's turn to let out a quiet whimper, not wanting to stop. The words are worth it, though, and he takes a moment to catch his breath and let himself feel the truth of them. They get to have this, and if S hasn't given up on him yet, he never will. That isn't license, though, to go on behaving as he did before. It's a reason why he has to do keep doing better. Still, no matter how much he thinks — hopes — he's improved, it still moves him to be reminded of S's enduring faith in him. And this, now, feeling the certainty with which S supports him, trusts him, his heart flutters and rises, a lump following into his throat.

"Always," he echoes, a plaintive murmur, thumb brushing softly along the fine hairs at the back of S's neck. He can say all he wants how much it means to him, but he has no idea how he could ever begin to convey it in any real way. To be so loved, to be so wanted, was always a powerful thing. But what they have now is something greater even than it was before, something at once intense and profoundly gentle. He wants to find some way to explain how it feels to be trusted in spite of all he's done, to know S is this sure of him, but he can't. There aren't any words for it that he knows, and he has no way to make music. All he can do is nudge forward again, pressing a brief kiss to S's lips. "Sihyun-ah..."

There's nothing for it, he decides, and gives up on trying, brevity giving way to more as he draws S into a deeper kiss. Maybe this, too, S will understand without his having to explain it. Or he can try tomorrow, if he gets any sleep, if he's more coherent. Right now, it's too much to try and process or condense into words, and it feels too good, crashing into S again, making a small, pleased sound into his mouth, though he's not sure either of them need any encouragement.

Again, over and over, S tells himself that they should stop. It's been a strange night, and emotions have obviously and understandably been running high, and he's sure that neither of them is at their most sensible as a result. Given the hour and their lack of sleep, continuing just seems unwise. With nowhere he has to be tomorrow, though, now that work will certainly be out of the picture, there isn't really any compelling reason he can come up with to pull away. It feels too good, and in a way, maybe they need this, just for a little while, to get lost in each other, to feel anchored after having to revisit so much that was so painful. It may have taken being in another world to accomplish it, but somehow, they made it through. If anything, it feels too good to be true — even after having been woken up by J sobbing after a nightmare about having tried to kill him. They're here, alive and safe. The professor can't manipulate either of them anymore. They don't have to hide their relationship, which is a chance he never thought they would get back in their own world, even without the absolute mess that everything unraveled into. Everything was so terrible for so long, and now they're happier than he thinks they've been in years, or maybe ever.

Things like this don't happen to him. There's always a catch, a cost. Maybe, though, having to live with all of what happened before is cost enough. J can't take away his knowledge of the things he did, and S can't erase the scars on his chest, what would be a permanent physical reminder of it if he had any intention of revealing them in front of J again, which he doesn't. Nights like this may be fewer and further between now, but there will probably be more of them. S knew what he was signing on for from the start, though. He said it the day J arrived, that he'd be here for the good and the bad, that he wasn't expecting it to be easy and wanted to be here anyway. That's still just as true, or maybe truer.

His breath catches a little at the way J says his name and the accompanying touch, and once more, he thinks that they should stop, but he can't bring himself to. There's too much longing in him, a need that he couldn't put into words if he tried to. For all he knows, it's just for the comfort of it — the closeness of them, having a way to convey his feelings without trying to articulate them — but whatever the reason, he leans into it in kind when J kisses him again, his hand leaving J's to rest against his back instead, pulling him close, eyes falling shut. I'm here, he thinks again, but it isn't worth drawing back to say. Kissing J says it clearly enough anyway.

J spent a long time trying — and very much failing — to be the serious, practical, rational one, and he's not about to try again tonight. He considers it for a moment, thinks again of how worn out he is, decides that's precisely why this is fine. It's not like he's going to get up to anything particularly vigorous when he's tired — the kind of tired that, after a lot of crying and a lot of kissing and a lot of unexpected revelations, leaves him lightheaded and easily swayed. It's been a difficult night and he was extremely upset for far too much of the time when he should have been asleep, and he wants this. What, exactly, he doesn't know, just a vague this. Whatever S will give him, the familiar nudge of S's hand at his back, the encouraging part of his lips, the safety of his embrace, the security of being loved. He was scared and, in his sleep, he was alone and it was his fault, and it helps, being held, being kissed.

Well, kissing, very much an active participant. And maybe, yes, he knows, kissing can't solve their problems, and it certainly won't fix his brain or he'd be completely cured by now, but it also isn't going to make any of it worse, and they could both stand to feel better.

One hand still at S's neck, he runs his other lower, pawing at S's chest, the comforting solidity of him, fingers curling in his shirt. "I love you," he sighs, having just barely drawn back, and only so he can catch S's lower lip between his teeth right after, tugging gently. He likes the sounds S always makes when he does that, likes how much he knows S enjoys it. With a soft, contented hum, he eases in for another kiss, shifting in S's lap as if it's at all possible for him to get any closer.

S means to echo the sentiment, but then J's teeth tug at his lip, and what comes out instead is a wordless mewl, soft and needy. He shouldn't want this. He shouldn't encourage this. It's late, and they're too tired and emotional to be making any kind of reasonable decisions in this regard, he's sure. That's exactly why, though, it feels like he can't get enough, can't get close enough. J may be haunted by that night and what he did, but for S, there's a part of him, deep down, still painfully aware of loss, still grieving. He wasn't the one who woke from a nightmare in tears tonight, but talking about the mess everything became still wakes that part of him up a bit. Relieved and happy as he is that they're here, that they have this, that doesn't just go away. And the best way to soothe that feeling is like this, getting lost in kissing, J warm and close in his arms.

"Love you too," he finally mumbles, though it's only a moment before he pulls J into another kiss, fingers threading into his hair. They should stop, but the longer they spend like this, the easier it is to convince himself that there's no harm in continuing, halfway trying to figure out what they might be able to do that they aren't too tired for, halfway too out of sorts to give anything that much coherent thought. It doesn't matter. The only that matters is this, them, together in spite of all the things that should have kept them apart. Of course, after a night so rocky, he would want to have this to focus on instead. Clearly, he's not the only one.

His other hand curls in J's shirt in turn, the most he'll let himself do without further prompting. As much as he doesn't really want to stop, he can't bring himself to push for more, either, not without knowing what J wants or, really, what they both might be able to handle right now. That still doesn't stop him from continuing.

It gets under his skin, hearing the sounds S makes, that wanting whimper, the way he pants between kisses, the warmth of his words made somehow even more endearing by how he says them. Or else, by the fact that J is so utterly enamored and so relieved, further reassured with every passing moment, every kiss.

There are times it still doesn't feel entirely real. He remembers too vividly how he felt before, even though some of the facts blur together or vanish entirely. He remembers the pain and the fear, and he remembers the certainty that he threw all of this away, that nothing would ever bring them together again in life. But when S holds him like this, when he makes those sweet sounds, it helps J stay here, in this moment, aware and certain. Whatever he tried before, he could never get it quite right in his head, could never remember just how it felt to have S in his embrace or how he tasted, how he sounded. He could get close, but not precise, not like this, not real.

He could, really, get that same sense of comfort and stability if they simply laid down and curled up in each other's arms until they drifted back to sleep. Maybe, like that, if he tried, J could relax enough even to let that happen. Maybe. But he wants this, something warm and vivid. His heart's been racing almost without pause since he woke up; it might as well be for a better reason.

While S clearly agrees, J also knows he has to be every bit as tired as J is. Drawing back a little, J ducks his head, lips trailing down S's neck again, tongue darting out to taste him. "What do you want?" he asks, tugging lightly at S's shirt. "Should we slow down? Go back to sleep?" They could probably both do with some water, for that matter, though J suspects if they get up and leave the room, they'll just end up making out in the kitchen or on the couch instead. Still, he's not about to make assumptions about what S does or doesn't feel up to at this time of night.

The thing is, S doesn't really know what he wants. All he could really say for certain is that he doesn't want to stop; even that is conditional, a matter of what J wants, too, and tempered by the fact that he knows they should stop. The longer they keep going, the more difficult he knows it will be to pull back from this. It's late, and they're tired and emotional and probably not thinking very clearly. He isn't sure he cares. Maybe it wouldn't be sensible to continue, but there's no reason right now why they should have to be sensible in the first place. They're already awake, and he's already decided that he isn't going to work tomorrow, which he thinks really is the smartest decision he could make here. After all of this, he doesn't want to leave J alone, and it wouldn't be worth the exhaustion of working a shift with as little sleep as he would have gotten. This way, he can get some rest — they both can, hopefully — and they can spend a little time together that isn't just clutching at and crying on each other in the dark.

He's just not sure he's ready to rest yet. At least now, he's clutching at J for a much better reason, too, fingers still twisted in his shirt, his head tipped to the side and his breath catching as J's mouth trails along his neck again. That alone would necessitate taking a moment before he responds. It does him no favors as far as trying to decide how to respond, too, and still he's not sure he cares.

"Not unless you want to," he settles on, a soft confession, the clearest way he has to say what he means. He wouldn't want to push anyway, but least of all right now, when J's had an even rougher night than he has and must be that much more worn out as a result. For him, though, it helps more than sleeping could to be close like this, so vividly, unmistakably reminded that they're here, safe with each other, that they somehow made it. That J is asking makes S suspect that the same is true for him too, but he's not just going to assume. It makes him no less self-conscious, voice a murmur in the darkness, a little sheepish despite what they've been and are still doing. "I... I don't know what I want, but it's not to stop."

J laughs, muffled against S's neck, and nods a little. "I don't want to," he says, soft as a confession, though he's really more amused than not. There are plenty of reasons to disentangle himself from S now, but the only one he can think of with any real weight is that, however much the idea of it appeals to him, he doubts he has the presence of mind or energy to have sex right now. Still, there are things they can do without actually fucking, and, right now, he cares more about simply being close, all wrapped up in each other like this.

He's had worse nights than this. There have been nightmares every bit as bad and panic attacks that steal his breath so thoroughly he finds himself afraid he'll die again. There have been moments when he wasn't entirely sure he cared. Usually, when that happens, he's able to steer himself back on course, remind himself what he has to lose, what he's fighting for, quickly enough that they don't feel worth mentioning, more flashes of idle thought than any crushing despair. There's been plenty of despair, though, too. The last several months have been fraught, series of otherwise perfectly ordinary days punctuated by irrational fear, crippling guilt, an anxiety that makes him feel like he's already dying, makes his skin prickle, hot from the ghosts of distant flames. He lives around it the best he can. He's as honest about it as he can be. There's been worse.

But not often, not recently. And not like this, followed by a series of revelations he's pretty sure he hasn't yet processed in any real way. It's shaken him already, yes, but he doesn't think he can really think about it yet, not in full, not taking in the entirety of what all this means until he's had more rest. Except there's no way he can go back to sleep yet.

"It's comforting," he says, voice tugging up almost into a question. He lifts his head, too, nudging against S's, noses bumping, forehead coming to rest against forehead. A laugh slips out of him, helpless and self-conscious. He knows S understands. He knows S knows this about him. It's not like it's a secret, even if he doesn't usually put it into words, that he takes solace in sex at times, that it's grounding for him, a way to be vividly certain of the reality of his world without being tethered to the horror of it. A way to be as close to S as humanly possible, to express the love he doesn't know how to put into words, though he tries and tries. "After all of this, I... it feels good just to kiss you. Touch you." He's tired enough that everything feels just a tiny, tiny bit skewed, that sort of vagueness to it that he knows already means that, tomorrow, it won't seem quite real.

"Feels real," he murmurs, tired enough to say it, but not to question himself after the fact, wondering if that's a weird way to put it, though he figures S will understand what he means. And when he woke up, terrified like that, because he dreamed S was dead, of course he wants to feel his boyfriend under his hands, solid and certain. His hand starts wandering again, smoothing over S's chest, tracing lower. What he wants, really, is the reminder that this is real and S is okay. "And I don't, I don't want to think. Just for a little while."

It's about what S would have expected to be the case, really, by no means only but in no small part because it's how he feels, too. Of course, it isn't always like that. Their needs and the ways they cope have, at times, been vastly different. In this regard, though, and as a response to a night like this, he's not surprised that they're reasonably in sync with each other, that they both need a tangible reminder that the other is alright and a chance to get out of their heads for a little while. He may not be the one who woke up panicking and in tears from a nightmare about his boyfriend being dead, but the subject still strayed in that direction, too, and the weight of it sits heavy on his chest even now. The warmth of J's hand through his shirt helps ease it, though, and so does every kiss and touch, something present and inescapable, a reminder that's welcome and then some that, whatever bullshit they've had to deal with, they've made it through, back together now where they belong, with no one to come between them this time.

"I don't either," he says, soft and almost slurred, mouth nearly brushing J's again. They've done enough thinking for the time being, and they'll do more later. "Just want to be with you." He can't take the nightmares away, and he can't change the things that happened that cause them now. He can do this, though, he can be this, a temporary respite from all that went wrong, a reminder that he lived. That, as he knows now, J's efforts to save him were successful. He only wishes he wasn't a reminder of his own near-death, too.

That's another thought to put away for another time, though. It won't do them any good tonight, and they've spent long enough talking about that chapter in their lives and all the heavy things it entailed. Just for now, just for a little while, they can let all of that fade into the background and focus on the fact that they're both here and alive, his heartbeat steady if quick under J's hand. "Want to make you feel good," he adds, and he's still not even entirely sure what he means or what that could be right now, only that he means it. Leaning in as he speaks, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of J's mouth, turning his head after just a moment, nose brushing his cheek as he breathes him in. "I'm here."

It's the best he can do, the most he can give. With as much difference as it makes for him, though, having proof that J is alright, maybe the same can be true for J in turn.

"I know," J says, a hushed and instinctive answer. That's what matters right now, the certainty that S is here, that he's safe. As upset as he's been, as confused and hurt, and as much as he knows it will take time for him to see any part of that night in a good way, S has already made him feel good. It's strange to look at what he did and realize how it looks to S, and it does feel good, if difficult to comprehend, to see that in a kinder light. That in itself would be a big deal, an enormous shift in his own self-understanding, once he's wrapped his head around it a little more.

But right now, he really doesn't want to get his head around anything. What he's already understood has been emotional at best, much of it extremely painful, even disturbing. If he has any hope of sleeping again tonight, he needs to put it aside until he's gotten some rest, but that's not something he's at all good at doing on his own. Left to himself, he'll worry at the details until they make even less sense, until his mind starts to trip over itself. But S is here, solid and soft at once, warm and sweet, and J can feel S's breath against his cheek when he speaks, and it doesn't entirely undo the tension in J's chest or calm his overlapping thoughts, but it slows them, eases them. It's enough, more than enough, more than he could ever ask for.

"I'm here, too," he says. S needs those reassurances, too, he knows. It's still hard to get his head around that, as well. He knows he died — killed himself — he's very aware of that, but it's easy to forget sometimes that, for S, he was gone for months. On nights like this, though, it's all too clear how much S must have mourned. As strange a concept as that might still be to him, and as much as J isn't sure he can make that go away any more than S can get rid of his madness, he can at least try to be a comfort to him.

Granted, his idea of comfort, at least in this moment, means rolling his hips gently down against S's as he turns his head, looking for S's mouth again. He can't see very much right now, but they have plenty of practice at this, and it's easy enough. "You always makes me feel good," he murmurs, barely pulling away. He's tempted to draw back more and turn on a dim light, enough to see S better by; he's tempted, too, to see if S will undress in the dark. Knowing what he knows now — or, rather, what S thinks of what J already knew — he wonders if he could bear it now, if he could stand to see the marks he left behind and see them as evidence not of betrayal but survival.

J's hand slips under S's shirt to his waist as he kisses S more firmly, more certain now that they know not so much what they're doing as that they're doing something. Smiling against S's lips, he bumps his forehead against S's. "Did you have anything in mind, darling?"

With the warm, familiar weight of J in his lap, it's impossible to miss, of course. Even with the light off, there's no better way to be assured of the fact that J is here, real and whole and safe with him. They could be anywhere right now and it wouldn't matter; the world outside their bedroom hardly seems to exist at the moment. The important thing is that they're together. That, somehow, they're both alive, even if one of them had to die for that to be possible, that there's no one here to hold anything over their heads or try to come between them. He won't let that happen, not again. No more secrets, like he said. Next time, if there is a next time, and he hopes there won't be, they'll face whatever it is together, the way it always should have been. With everything they've made it through, S is sure there isn't anything they can't face.

Right now, though, he doesn't want to think about any of that. They've spent enough time on it, shed enough tears, for one night. He just wants this, instead, whatever this winds up being, the two of them close and calming each other. It can't be such a bad thing to distract each other like this when they both know what they're doing and both want it — both need it, maybe, a chance to focus on something better for a while, to be reminded that they made it. Even if he tried to sleep now, he isn't sure that would be able to, too wound up and emotional, worried about J, reminded of the past. He knows J is here, obviously, but it helps to hear and even more to feel with too many unwelcome memories fresh in his mind. This is better, J rolling his hips and S humming into the kiss, holding him close, hand splayed over his back.

"Not really," he admits, exhaling a soft laugh against J's mouth, smiling faintly in turn as he does. There are any number of possibilities, and yet he's also not sure what they might both even be up for when it's this late and their sleep has been interrupted. For his part, he's not really even sure he cares as long as it means staying close, having the continued reassurance of J's presence. "I just... don't want to stop. Don't want to think for a while." He agreed a moment ago, but somehow it feels right to say it outright, too, to make sure J knows that they're on the same page with this. For so long, they weren't, but right now, he's pretty sure they both need the same thing. The tip of his nose brushing J's, he asks, "What about you? Anything in mind?"

J smiles, an instinctive response to the brush of S's nose against his own, such an endearing gesture. The hand not at S's waist he lifts to S's cheek, thumb tracing along his skin. "Nothing specific," he says. He hasn't been thinking ahead so much as justifying this to himself and chasing after whatever keeps him feeling grounded and safe. Vague possibilities have crossed his mind, but he hasn't actually thought anything through just yet. Making sure they're on the same page about this is more important anyway. Anything else can be figured out as they go.

He presses a soft kiss to S's lips, lingering close. "Just want to make you feel good," he says, then lets out a tiny laugh of his own. "I don't think either of us are, ah... energetic enough for me to fuck you right now." His voice lilts up, a question, though it's more regarding whether or not he's chosen the right adjective. He's pretty sure of his assessment, at least, though it's not like they've never had sleepy sex before or morning sex or any other of a number of forms of extremely lazy sex. But that would also involve his not being able to see S anyway, and he doesn't want that right now. Granted, it's dark enough that that probably shouldn't make a difference, but it still does, at least to him. "Wanna face you anyway. See you."

He misses that, how it used to be. There's so much to be happy about and thankful for, and sex is, in the grand scheme of things, far less important than the chance they have to be together. Still, he misses being able to be on top of S and look into his eyes, to kiss him while they fuck, to run his hands over S's chest without a shirt in the way. Eventually, he thinks, they might get it back. He wants to believe that, at least. With all he's learned tonight, he has a little more hope about his own ability to handle S's scars sooner rather than later (or never). And somehow that, he thinks, that physical evidence, frightens him more than leaning over S would now; it's not so much the position anymore as it is his concern about what he'd see on S's face, if that fear would come darting back into his eyes.

Thinking about all of this isn't specifically what J wants to avoid right now, but it certainly ties into it. All of this is more, probably, than he can figure out in a night. If half a year hasn't helped them sort it out, one more night won't. With another soft kiss, he draws back just a little, enough to duck his head again, mouthing at S's neck. "But I'm sure," he murmurs, "I can think of something."

S means to respond, but J's mouth on his neck again is an abrupt and efficient distraction, drawing another quiet, encouraging hum from him before he can hold it back. He wouldn't bother trying even if he could. With as rocky as tonight has been, with everything else he's been unable to hold back, this, he thinks, is something worth holding onto, making the most of. At least neither of them is sobbing anymore. They're both a mess, probably, but that hardly matters when there's no one around but the two of them, and they've seen each other in far worse states than this. He barely can see, anyway. J is clearer in the dark than when they first woke up, but it's still not much of a view. When he can make himself, he nods in agreement all the same, as much of a movement as he can manage with his head tilted to the side and without interrupting what J is doing.

"Me too," he whispers, soft but intent. It hasn't bothered him, really, that they can't have sex in the position they most used to favor. Can't probably isn't even the right word for it. They shouldn't, maybe, or just haven't tried, and tonight definitely wouldn't be the night to try. To him, it just hasn't been worth the risk. He knows that nothing would happen, that J wouldn't hurt him. If he thought there was even a chance that J would, then he wouldn't be sleeping with him at all, and certainly wouldn't done some of the things the two of them have over the past weeks. He can't guarantee that he wouldn't have some knee-jerk reaction, though, or that J wouldn't. Maybe at some point, the time will be right to try to push past that, or to work up to it, but given the nightmare that woke J, that doesn't seem like a good idea for right now. He does want to see J, though, to be able to touch him, and he's far too tired to ride him, so they'll just have to find an alternative.

He exhales slowly, a little shakily, still holding J to him as if in an attempt to keep him here. "Wanna see you too," he clarifies, one hand sliding into J's hair again, fingers combing through it affectionately. "And I'm definitely not energetic enough for you to fuck me." They've had sex while tired before, sure, but it still seems like more exertion than he would be capable of right now. At least they should have other options. "We'll figure it out." He's almost tempted to suggest they just lie down and make out for a while, but he knows them too well for that. There's no way they wouldn't then want to go further and wind up with exactly the same decision to make that they have now.

J laughs into the crook of S's neck, fond and appreciative, and lets out a soft sigh of his own. This on its own is already so nice, S's fingers so gentle and calming in his hair. For all he knows, however much he might now be interested, in a few minutes he'll be tired enough to sleep anyway. He doubts it, if only because the possibility of further nightmares worries him, but it could happen.

"I mean," he murmurs, "I can't see you very well right now anyway." He bites gently at S's neck, just enough to be sure S feels it. "But you know what I mean." Dark or not, there's an intimacy in being tangled up just like this that he craves right now. Not having a clear idea of what he wants, though, doesn't mean he can't try things and make S feel good in the now. Hand skimming lower, he tugs at S's waistband, more playful than not, since there's little enough he can really do in this position. "Could just touch you." He lets out another stifled laugh. "Though it would be easier lying down and just imagine one of us falling asleep."

They're more alert now than before, clearly, but that doesn't mean they aren't worn out, and J knows from long experience how quickly crying can turn into sleeping. It's a bizarrely exhausting activity. Still, he's deeply amused imagining that happening, his brow raising as he presses another kiss to S's neck. "And we'd have to clean up after." In their present condition, that's less appealing even than usual. "But what a way to wake up from drifting off. I should wake you up like that sometime." It's not like the opportunity doesn't present itself regularly — or, at least, on the rare occasions when J wakes up first without immediately going back to sleep. "Or with my mouth."

The soft sound S lets out then, an involuntary little whine, is half encouragement, half protest. He still very much doesn't want to stop, and he quite likes what J is saying, at least most of it. There is a good point buried somewhere in there, though, his nose scrunching at the thought of just how limited their logistics currently are. Going back to sleep really would be the sensible move here. It's hard to care much about what's sensible, though, when J is talking like this, the little bite against his neck sending a pleasant shiver through him, head still leaning to the side to make sure J has room to continue.

"Not sure I'm energetic enough to do much cleaning up after, either," he says, a hint of a whine in his voice. Certainly he wouldn't have it in him to get up and change the bedding and shower. They still have options, of course, just more restrictive ones than they usually might, especially when he wants to stay at least somewhat like this, all intertwined together, facing each other if not exactly able to see each other very well in the dark. He doesn't mind that they usually can't, knowing that it's for a good reason, or at least that it hasn't been worth the risk of it not going well. Tonight, though, he doesn't want glances over shoulders or to use his arms to prop himself up. He wants this, to hold and kiss his boyfriend, to be reminded with every passing moment that they're both here, that they found their way back to each other.

The rest is maybe a bit less relevant for the time being, but enticing, too, though it's only a moment before he figures there's a possible flaw in that logic. "You know that to wake me up, you'd have to wake up before me, right?" he points out. It's not like it's never happened, but it isn't exactly a common occurrence. "But I could wake you up like that sometime, too."

"It's not like I never do," J protests. It happens more often than S realizes, probably, since J usually just goes back to sleep, but, admittedly, not that much more. Now that he's said this and now that S has teased him for it, though, he's determined that this is going to happen. S will get double the surprise when it does. Besides, it's difficult to be genuinely annoyed or put out, when S follows up with that.

He lifts his head again, leaning in for a soft kiss. "I wouldn't mind that," he adds, a vast understatement. "If you wanted to." He supposes it could be disconcerting, if they'd never mentioned it to each other, a strange way to start the day, but knowing it's a possibility, he's very much in favor. Still, he's also not about to say outright that S should do it; if he feels like it, J will enjoy it, he's sure, but if he doesn't, well, it's quite a bit of exertion for having just woken up, and he couldn't fault S for not wanting to do that.

But that's something to deal with later. He wants to do something now, not tomorrow, even if tomorrow isn't very many hours away. Fingers brushing through S's hair, he kisses him again, slow and soft. "I could use my mouth now," he points out, hushed. It would take care of much of the mess, for one. For another, that whine that his suggestion caused not long ago was intoxicating; he always likes making S feel good, but right now, when he has so many feelings he doesn't know how to understand or express quite yet, it's one thing he's certain of. Waking up from a nightmare and grounding himself in the present is hard enough without a slew of emotional revelations following it. That he feels, though tired, here is because of S, caring for him, loving him, making him see things in a new light. He can't necessarily put any of this into words properly, but he can give S pleasure, and that's enough when he's still a bit out of it.

He doesn't entirely want to pull away from S, but their options are limited and neither of them has the energy to have sex in this position either, as much as he might enjoy riding S otherwise (something to remember for later, he decides). This is, perhaps, the best possibility that isn't just them wavering until they fall asleep unsatisfied. "If you want," he adds again, close against S's mouth before he kisses him, a little harder now. S might be loath to give up this position, too. "Or," he says when he draws back, "you could sit on my lap instead so I can touch you." It'd be messier, but it means being closer and getting to kiss, which, now he's said it, appeals to him even more.

Setting aside thoughts of waking each other up with hands or mouths, S thinks again that their options for tonight are limited, tired enough that he can't help pouting a little for it. That would be the case now even if it weren't usually. Having already determined that they're both too worn out to fuck, which really does feel true, no matter how much he would rather it didn't, they couldn't have sex as they once normally would have, with him on his back and J on top of him, regardless of other circumstances. Typically, he doesn't mind that. Right now, though, he wishes for the first time in a long time that they could, wanting that closeness, that connection. Still, they're both stubborn and both creative, and he's sure neither of them is about to be deterred by having fewer possibilities than usual.

He's too focused on kissing J, at least at first, to come up with any suggestions just yet. J could use his mouth, and that would make cleaning up easier, too, but while he's hardly about to object to the idea of receiving a blowjob, that still minimizes the rest of their contact. He wants to face J, to hold him, to kiss him like he's doing now; he wants to get all wrapped up in his boyfriend, to lose himself in being together, just for a little while. It's difficult to explain, really, how rattled he feels, when he had no bad dreams — not tonight, anyway — and the one major revelation he was faced with was a good one. Too many awful subjects have simply been too present. They made it. He needs to remember that. Maybe it's strange, in the face of all of that, that now is the time he finds himself longing to have sex like they haven't since they got back together, but he doesn't care. This is theirs. No one else can touch it, not anymore.

J's next idea is a good one, anyway. S nods without pulling away, still holding onto J, fingers in his hair, twisted in his shirt. "That could work," he says, more an exhale than anything else. They'll still have to do some cleaning up that way, at least changing into fresh clothes, but it would be worth the extra trouble, he thinks, to stay close like this. "I can't touch you as much if you use your mouth now," he points out, a self-conscious slant to his smile, though he suspects that J's line of thought isn't very different from his. "And I wanna make you feel good, too."

Even having suggested it, J isn't entirely certain that it wouldn't end up being a complete mess anyway, but if they end up having to wash up after, they'll deal with it after. When he can feel the way S's hands curl in his clothes, in his hair, when he wants so badly just to be close, to get lost in each other, he just doesn't care. He'll deal with the consequences after. It's not like they're likely to be dire.

"I know," he murmurs, pressing another, softer kiss to S's lips. It's stupid, probably, he knows that, to be so incredibly upset about so many things and go running right into sex for comfort, but to him, it just makes sense, too. In those moments between sleeping and waking, he was genuinely afraid he had killed S after all. That in itself would be enough reason to want the very tangible reminder that S is about as okay as anyone can be after what J did. But he's tired and, even if some of what he learned was good, it was still difficult, and he wants comfort, wants his thoughts chased away, wants to remember the reasons he has to be thankful to be alive, and none is more pertinent or vivid right now than S.

It's stupid, too, when they do, in fact, have options, to wish there were more options. There's nothing he can do about that now, but he still wishes for it, a little wistful as he kisses S again. "I just want to be close to you," he says, almost a whisper. He'd honestly be tempted to try if he didn't think he was too tired on too many levels. In his current emotional state, he's not fit to try something that he already knows is risky, but that only makes it sting more.

Which in turn just makes him need this more. His kiss turning hungry, his hands wandering, he breaks off at last to catch his breath, his melancholy shifting into resigned amusement. "Wanna feel you, too," he says. "What is wrong with me that I wake up from a nightmare and now all I want is to make you come?" But it makes sense, he's sure it does. Granted, he's thought a lot of things made sense that were quite literally insane, but no one gets hurt in this one. Not tonight, at least, and not without permission. It takes effort to make himself move away at all, but he does, increasingly aware of his own need, so he can sit on the bed, tugging S toward him. It's too awkward a position, him trying to paw his way into S's pants when he's sitting on top of him, and, anyway, he wants that, too, the solid, familiar weight of S in his lap part of the comfort he seeks.

The phrasing is so endearingly straightforward that S can't help letting out a quiet laugh, half-muffled against J's mouth as he chases after another kiss. Put like that, it does seem ridiculous. At the same time, though, he knows it isn't, not really. There are far worse ways to deal with a turn of events like tonight's, and it isn't like he doesn't want the same thing — to get lost for a while, for nothing in the world to exist but the two of them and the way they love each other. This is hardly the first time one or both of them has sought comfort in each other like this, and if they both know it works for them, then why shouldn't they? He wants to feel J, warm and solid and safe; he wants to be reminded that they both made it, survived when they shouldn't have, found their way back to each other when such a thing should have been impossible. What better way to relieve some of the stress of tonight than with each other?

"I don't think that's a sign of anything wrong with you," he points out, moving at J's prompting as he does. It's a little awkward, shifting positions like this, but that doesn't stop him in the slightest. "Or if it is, the same thing is wrong with me, too." Even aside from easing his own worry, there's a deep relief in J's demeanor now. It hurt — was, really, fucking terrifying — to see J in the state he was in earlier, holding him as he trembled and gasped and sobbed and stuttered out details of a horrible nightmare. None of that has just gone away, S knows. Hopefully what he said tonight will help at least a little, but he still expects that there will be other nights like this, with bad dreams and tears. For right now, though, they've made it through to the other side, and that's something worth holding onto.

Pulling himself into J's lap, the opposite of their position from a moment ago, S wraps his arms around him, ducking his head to press a kiss to J's neck, lingering there for a moment, lips against warm skin. Maybe he can't have what he really wants right now, but he can have this, and that's hardly a consolation prize. Nothing that involves the two of them ever could be. "I love you," he murmurs, soft but intent, letting those words sit for a moment before he continues. "And I have every intention of making you come, too."

The weight of S in his lap is such a relief somehow, such a solid reminder of the realness of him, that J's breath actually catches. That S's lips are on his neck almost before he's got his arms around him only adds to it, the combination of his mouth and his words sending a little shudder through J, a soft gasp slipping out of him. He wants — to make S feel good, to feel him whole and safe, to be made to feel good in turn — but also to let himself live in this moment, to hear those words and tell himself he's allowed this. When he wakes up in this kind of a state — or some variation of it, usually a bit less pronounced — it's hard to believe that's the case. His mind flooded with memories of death and pain, fire and blood, all the terrible things he did, it's a struggle not to fall back into the way he felt when he arrived here. S helps, he always does, even if J feels guilty for that, too, at times. But it's still there, that mean part of him that wants to get him alone and destroy him.

But he gets this. He gets to hold the man he loves. He gets to be loved. It's okay, he tells himself, to accept that. Not that it takes much convincing right now. Maybe arousal is an absurd response to terror and misery, or even to relief, but he doesn't care, not right now. If it means they get to feel better and calm down and hopefully get some sleep, if it helps him put his head right, it doesn't matter if it's ridiculous or not. Whatever else might be said about this particular coping mechanism of his, at least it doesn't harm anyone.

"Good," he mumbles, slipping his hands under S's shirt, one to the small of his back, one trailing down to his waistband. "Because I'm going to need that." He already wants to be touched, but that will be far more pronounced by the time he's done with S. Still, he waits, turning his head to kiss S's cheek. "I love you too. I love you so much, Sihyun-ah." That S is here, real and whole, is a miracle; that J is here, safe and alive, is even more of one, and one that is contingent on S's being safe. He wants to believe — hope, at least — that he's doing better now, that he'll keep getting better somehow, but he knows that first week would have been insurmountable on his own. He's not sure he would have survived that first day.

But he did. He did, because of this man, loving him, caring for him, coaxing him back to life, into a cautious hope that he might yet be worth something. There's nothing, really, that J can ever say or do to convey just how profoundly grateful he is to have S in his life. But then, he knows S feels more or less the same. All they can really do is this, express their love in various ways, and try.

He draws back just a little, trying to see S, though he's as much shadow now as not. Still, as much as J enjoys S kissing his neck, he wants to watch him, at least at first, as he slips his hand into S's pants, lightly palming his dick.

Even now, S is torn between thinking this is ridiculous and thinking it's perfectly reasonable. It's hardly the first time they've done this, after all, using sex as a means of dealing with any kind of turmoil. At least as he remembers it, there was a lot of that once they first started having sex at all, between the grief he still felt over the recent loss of his parents and the frustration of having to hide their relationship and the stress of exams and applying to college. It wasn't all they ever did, when J has always been the only person he could talk to about all of that, too, but it was still a good way of dealing with whatever came up.

Right now, it seems even more warranted. After the dream J had and everything that came to light as a result, he doesn't see anything wrong with their wanting to be close to each other, to feel good for a little while. There isn't really any reason not to, especially now that he's already planning not to go to work tomorrow. They'll be able to sleep in as long as they need to, and they'll be able to sleep better, he thinks, if they have this first instead of going right back to bed. There's no better way he can think of to be reminded that they're both here, that they made it.

And what he really wants is not to think at all, just for a little while. That's easier like this, his head lifting again when J leans back, though his eyes close for a moment in the dark, his breath catching, when J's hand slides into the front of his pants. It's a familiar touch, and so good, just that slight contact making him want more. This really was a good idea, he's sure of it now. Even without much of a view, he can still just make out the sight of J, and being able to kiss him, to hold him, makes all the difference. For him, at least, that's what this is about, more than just getting off. If he can't have what he really wishes he could, then this is the next best thing, his fingers twisting in J's shirt again, mostly just for something to hold onto. That's not enough, either — he wants to touch all of him, and would rather be able to get undressed — but it's something, an anchor he badly needs.

"You feel good," he mumbles, leaning in for another kiss, soft and a bit off-center. That's hardly new, of course, but that doesn't make it any less true or any less worth saying. "Always do."

J smiles, fond and quietly pleased. There is, at times like this, an odd kind of relief in all of this, in being able to make S feel good, as if the physical serves as a reminder that he can make S feel good in other ways too. He needs that more than he'd like. It makes him nervous sometimes, that and so much else, the frantic fear he'll still fail. He knows, he knows, he's doing better here, that he's happier and calmer than he's been in a long time, but that doesn't mean all of that's gone. A lot of the edge has worn smooth, but the fear is still there, and it's so easy to believe sometimes that this is the anomaly, not how he was before, that eventually it has to come crashing down. Reminders that, for now at least, he's yet to let S down in any significant way or to harm him or, better yet, that he's able to be good for him, they're badly needed.

Sometimes when he turns to this, to S and to sex, for comfort, it's frenzied and intense, deeply desperate. Right now, though, he wants reassurance. His heart flutters at S's words and his kiss, his own smile almost shy, and he needs that. "I love you," he mumbles again, head tipping forward for another kiss, fingers wrapping around S. With a soft, approving sound, he catches S's lip between his teeth, tugging gently, his hand moving slowly over S's length, not so much stroking yet as caressing. He wants, and he knows S does, too, but he's not looking to rush through this. It'll be his turn in time. Right now, he wants this.

And that is the ridiculous part, probably, the way he lets himself think that his ability to make S feel good physically is proof of any kind of romantic capability or moral goodness when he knows that's not at all true, but it helps. Right now, he's pretty sure that's what matters, the feeling of it more than the facts. If that's what helps settle his nerves, that's good enough. Besides, getting S off is more than enough reason in its own right. Free hand lifting to S's cheek, he draws back just a little to look at him, his other moving slow but steady over S, trying to get him wound up. "You make me feel good, too," he murmurs. "Just being here. Just loving me. So beautiful, darling. I'm so thankful for you."

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