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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.
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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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."
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"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.
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"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."
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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.
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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."
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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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"Me too," he murmurs, a soft exhale against J's mouth between kisses. His hands wander for a moment, settling on J's shoulders, trailing down his chest and sides, tugging at his shirt before slipping underneath it to find warm skin. He can't get J even somewhat undressed without stopping what he's doing, which he really would rather not, but even if they're going to have to take turns getting each other off, that doesn't stop him from wanting to touch. Fabric bunching around his wrist as he slides one palm up to rest over J's heart, feeling the steady beat of it, reassuring even when there's otherwise no mistaking that J is here and alive and whole. At least right now, any reminder goes a long way.
"So — so thankful." That doesn't even begin to cover it. The luck they've had is more than anyone should ever get, more than should be possible, and even if there's a part of him that's still waiting for there to be a catch or a cost, he's so beyond fucking grateful, determined never to take this for granted. He doesn't think he ever did, really, but however fortunate he thought he was back then pales in comparison to how fortunate he is now, reunited with the once-dead love of his life in a place where they can be together openly. Right now, that last part is just a little less important. It's hard to think about anything outside of this. "I love you so much."
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As much as this position can be awkward, he's glad it's what they chose. He likes that they have to slow down, he likes being tangled up like this, he likes being able to kiss S before he tries to answer. He knows that it's true, that S really is thankful. It's something J tries to hold onto when he's struggling. When he can't like himself or even trust himself, he can at least take solace in knowing that S loves and trusts him. It grounds him, helps him try to remember why that's true. S is kinder than he is, but he's proven himself to be a better judge of character, too. J just has to trust that includes himself, that S isn't making a mistake.
"Darling," he murmurs again, soft against S's mouth, hand still working steadily. There's more he could do, but he's biding his time, enjoying getting lost in this and letting S do the same. Late as it is and tired though they both are, he sees no reason to rush. Smiling, just as soft as his words, he rubs his nose against S's, wrist twisting slightly as he strokes S. "Even this makes me feel so lucky. Just touching you. Lucky to get to make you feel good. To get to hear you, feel you."
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"You make me feel so good," he murmurs, a confirmation of sorts of what J has said, nodding a little before he kisses J again, soft and wanting. "No one could ever make me feel as good as you do." No one has ever hurt him as much, either, but in a way, S thinks that's a product of how close they are, how much they love each other. Of course any wounds inflicted by someone else wouldn't do as much damage. He doesn't care about that right now, anyway. All he cares about is his mouth against J's, J's heart beating under his hand, J's hand wrapped around his dick. Nothing else matters right now, and he wouldn't want it to. That's sort of the point of this, really, an escape from all the rest of it, a chance to focus only on each other.
Again his hips roll forward, a slight motion, not seeking out more so much as approving of what he's getting. "I'm lucky, too," he adds, voice still hushed. This time, when he leans in, he kisses J's jaw, then his neck again, sucking gently over his pulse. "Don't know how I got so lucky."
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He usually manages to talk himself out of it. This time, he doesn't even have to, S's movements a distraction that sends it right out of his head. Another shiver runs through him, his eyes closing, a soft sound catching in his throat. He wonders distantly if S can feel that under his mouth. "I don't know," he murmurs, head tilting to the side. "Fate."
When he was younger, he thought that kind of thing was silly. Folk tales and legends and red strings were for other people, those who grew up with the luxury of believing in such nonsense. Idealistic and romantic though he might be, it stems from the same place as his cynicism, and he knew from early on to be dubious when it came to the idea of happily ever afters. If his mother never got one, it certainly couldn't be the kind of thing given out on merit. It's just luck, and he never had much of that. Except now he has trouble believing anything else. Maybe it was luck alone that brought them together as kids, but it isn't just luck that has them here now. It's more, it has to be more, has to be the way S loves him calling to him across worlds and years, across the veil between life and death. It has to be them, the way they're just meant to be together.
"That's lucky too," he adds, thinking aloud now. He drags his thumb over the head of S's dick, distantly wishing he could do that with his tongue instead. He doesn't want it enough to move now, especially not with S's lips on his neck. Fingers gripping S a little more firmly, he moves his hand in steady, languid strokes. "That you're my fate. That I'm yours."
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Besides, it simply doesn't make sense. This does, the two of them in each other's arms, the way it always should have been. That can't be anything but fate intervening, and a love too strong to be kept apart. Everything went wrong before, and it wasn't entirely on them that they broke apart. J loves him enough to have risked himself to try to save his life. He loves J enough that he would have done whatever it took, even knowing he might wind up being outed for it, to get some small amount of justice. Of course a love like that could bring them back together somehow.
When he was younger, just after the accident, it used to make him angry, how painfully unfair it was that he lost both of his parents at once because of one man's mistake. Now, he has to wonder if maybe that was right, if maybe they couldn't stand to be without each other either. One thing he knows for certain about his parents is how in love they were. For one to have survived without the other — well, he remembers too clearly what it was like to lose the love of his life, and how, having barely survived himself, there was a time when he wished he hadn't, thinking it would simply have been easier that way. It's not a feeling he would wish on anyone.
Neither his parents nor their death is something he wants to be thinking about while getting a handjob from his boyfriend, though. It is, at least, easy not to think too much under the circumstances, a quiet whine in his throat at the way J touches him, head ducking in a sort of sideways nod with his face still pressed into the curve of J's neck. "I'm yours," he echoes, voice hushed and affectionate and yearning, as he trails his lips up J's jaw, along the shell of his ear, "and you're mine, and nothing can ever change that." Nothing will come between them now, and no one. He fucked up before. He won't let that happen again.
His other hand sliding into J's hair, he rocks gently into J's touch, drawing back enough to rest their foreheads together again. "It is," he agrees. "Fate. It has to be." He smiles, soft, against J's mouth. "I'm so glad it is."
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It takes some effort, uncoordinated as he is right now, to work S's underwear a little lower without actually making him move. J just needs slightly better access, enough that he isn't held back by fabric. Humming agreement, he kisses S, a little hungrier now as he moves his hand a bit faster, taking advantage of an improved angle. "Me too," he mumbles. "Wouldn't want to be anyone else's. Ever."
Earnest though it is, it's hard to say it with the clarity it deserves. That's fine, though, because he knows he's said as much before and they're both tired and he's distracted. With the way S rocks his hips, J is aware of how hard he's getting, too, and he wants so much to encourage S, to make him feel good, to let him seek what he wants. Besides, while he's hardly eloquent right now, it's not like his meaning isn't clear. Fate is a very pretty idea for people whose lives are going well, but it's never meant very much to him until he fell for S. Fate with anyone else would be a waste of fucking time, frankly. S is the only person he could ever have loved like this. "All yours, Hyunie."
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Leaning in, S kisses him again, slow and deep, a little more intent, though still not rushed at all. He likes this pace, likes having J touch him. It's less about any specific physical act and more just about being together right now, anyway, though the physical part is still really fucking good, a soft sound in his throat when J picks up a little speed. Quietly breathless when he draws back, he leans his forehead against J's again, fingers combing idly through his hair, affection just for its own sake.
"All yours," he repeats, nodding a little without pulling away further. This time, when he presses into J's touch, it's less for his own sake and more to try to give J a little friction. He still has every intention of getting J off after this, of course, but that doesn't mean he should just get nothing in the meantime. "All of me, always." His heart belongs to J, his body, too. No one else has ever touched him like this; no one else could ever do so half as well. If they're fated, and he thinks that they are, then his soul must be, too, the two of them inextricably bound together. He wouldn't have it any other way. "I love you."
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Sometimes he thinks he's gotten about as used to all this as he can be. Life starts to feel normal. He spends most days feeling, if not completely steady, at least relatively stable, more so than he was for a long time, and he's content with his life, except for the occasional pang of wistfulness or sense of lost purpose. They've talked about this now, but the matter of if and when he tries to play again is something to decide later, when they've slept. For now, though, and for the most part, life has become something to be grateful for, yet still ordinary. He's lucky, but part of that luck is living an unremarkable life. But then he'll have trouble sleeping or he'll wake from a nightmare, he'll think he's heard someone speak when no one is there or he'll glimpse his arm when he's half-asleep, and it tumbles down around him, the strange sense that the life he leads is one he wasn't meant to have, a certainty that he'll never truly be normal again or, perhaps, even entirely sane.
But that's okay. With S in his lap, it's okay. It's extraordinary that he's here, and that's how it should be, and he makes the most of what he's got, which is a hell of a lot more than most people ever have. He's so loved. He wishes he could go back a decade and tell himself it's possible for him to be truly loved. Maybe things would have been easier if he hadn't spent so long assuming that wasn't possible.
He lets out a sharp breath, a hiss that curls into a hushed moan, at the way S moves against him. It's already difficult to ignore how turned on he is when he can feel how hard S is in his hand, but that just makes it more so. "I know," he murmurs, chasing after another soft kiss. It feels important. When he spent so fucking long pushing S away, thinking himself unlovable, making up how S must have really felt, it matters that he acknowledge this, that he knows the truth now of what S says, that he knows he's loved. "I know you do. I'm so lucky." Distantly he thinks that probably sounds stupid, given how this night has gone and the terrible things they've discussed, but he doesn't think S will think so, and it doesn't matter so much how it sounds when it's true. "So, so lucky. You make me feel so... precious, you know that? So loved."
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"Me too," he whispers, a quiet confession, and not having known he was going to say so until the words have left his mouth, it's almost enough to get him started crying again, ridiculous as that is under the circumstances. Until J showed up here, though, he'd forgotten what it felt like to be loved. That last while they were together before, as their relationship deteriorated, J didn't seem to have much love for him left, if any. Certainly he couldn't have felt loved as all those months of silence stretched out between them. He never stopped hoping, never stopped wanting to get back what he'd lost, but it hadn't really seemed like love on J's end in a long time. And after J died, there was no one left who loved him, no one who ever had. He really didn't remember what it was like. It's that much sweeter now for being reminded, for having thought he would never have that again. "You make me feel like that too."
A soft sound rising up in his throat, he leans in to kiss J again, this time gently on the corner of his mouth, nose brushing along the curve of J's cheek. "And you are," he adds, still just as soft, if the slightest bit more emphatic. "So loved. So precious to me." Difficult as tonight may have been, and as much as it may hurt to think about all of those worst parts of their past, it only heightens those feelings, too. And while all of this may be very much at odds with his sitting in his boyfriend's lap so J can get him off, it's as important now as ever. "We're so lucky." They weren't always, not by a long shot. It just makes him feel luckier now, though, to have dealt with all of that and wound up here anyway, safe in each other's arms where they belong.
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And all of that, he knows, is because of this, because S loves him. S doesn't have to live with this awful mind of J's, he doesn't have to face these thoughts directly, but he stays by J's side and helps him through it. Even when he doesn't necessarily know that's what he's doing, he does it. The fact that he's alive at all is because they found each other again.
Turning his head, he catches S's mouth in a brief, messy kiss. "We are," he murmurs, "but if you keep being so sweet, I'll cry again, and I don't wanna when I have your dick in my hand." It's the easiest way he can think of to keep that from happening, just by saying it bluntly enough (and pouting enough, admittedly) that he can find it funny, if flustering. Regardless, it doesn't keep him from the task literally at hand. His thumb stroking over S's waist, he keeps working his other hand over S. At this time of night, it's not the world's most skillful handjob, but he knows what he's doing and what S likes too well not to be good at this anyway. Even so, if he starts crying, even for a good reason, it probably won't work out well. It's just, he'd really forgotten not only how it felt to be loved but that anyone did, that anyone knew him enough to love him as he really is, that he might be worthy of that in any way. Right now, it's an overwhelmingly potent thing to be aware of.
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"Ah, don't cry with my dick in your hand," he says, gently teasing, forehead resting against J's again for a moment. "We've done enough crying tonight anyway." He just wants to feel good for a little while, and there's nothing better than holding his boyfriend and being held, one hand still between them, splayed against J's chest, the other continuing to stroke his hair. His voice lowers, hushed and breathy and intent. "Just keep touching me."
He doesn't wait for a response before kissing J again, slow and deep like before, rocking against him. When he whines in turn, it's unintended, but needy and encouraging. He's not really even chasing an orgasm, inevitable and welcome though that much will be, as trying to get more of this closeness, to stay in this moment, wrapped up in each other. "I love you," he murmurs again when he draws back to take a breath, words muffled against J's mouth for his unwillingness to put distance between them. "I love you, I love you." It's not enough, really, barely begins to cover the depth of what he feels, but at least it's something, and he doesn't want to hold it back.
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The way he moves against J doesn't hurt either; it'll be better when S is touching him, but it still feels good, and J isn't in any kind of a hurry. He likes this too much, being able to hold S and kiss him, feeling and hearing the way he responds to J's touch. Though he continues to stroke S steadily, he doesn't go any faster. Instead he shifts the angle of his wrist from time to time, adjusts the pressure he applies, drags his thumb along the underside of S's dick and over the tip, relying on variety over speed. When S wants him to go faster, he will, but for now, it's nice just to sit here and keep S close to him, to listen to him say that simple phrase again and again.
He could point out that this qualifies as being sweet and thus puts S in danger of getting cried on again, but he doesn't. However emotional it may make him, he likes hearing it too much to want S to stop. "I love you," he echoes, head tilting forward after S, catching another kiss. "More than I thought I could ever love anyone. More than I thought anyone could ever love anyone at all."
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"Me too," he whispers, still tender and close against J's mouth, nodding as best he can without pulling back. "More than I ever knew was even possible." He was, he thinks, already something of a romantic — lucky, really, to have two parents who loved each other as much as his did, giving him an idea of what a good relationship looks like. It's not that he believes he was wrong about that now. What he and J have is just something even rarer, that's all, a love that could beat death, that could defy the laws of space and time to bring them back to each other. A love that saved his life when it would have been easier and safer for J to let him die. A love that gave him something to fight for when he was at his lowest. Ridiculous as it seems to think about it like this, he's pretty sure that some part of him really did know, that first day he spoke to J, that they were meant to be together, something clicking into place for him from the start. Even when he thought their story had ended horribly, even when he thought they didn't stand a chance, he could never have regretted any of it.
He wants to say that, but he knows that would get him crying again, and probably J, too. S tries to focus instead on the way J's hand moves, kissing him a little more deeply, savoring it. "That's good," he says, a low, encouraging murmur. "Love how you touch me."
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But S knew love early in life. He was much more of a romantic when they were younger, back before J fell so utterly in love with S that he learned how to be one. J knows he must have imagined that love, for him, would be something warm and real and vital, present in all parts of his life. To exceed that is something special.
He's thankful in a way that almost makes him laugh when S kisses him and changes the topic. He could easily steer it back, he knows, and he might yet, but he needs the respite of not having to respond quickly, too emotionally raw still to do so with any composure. Instead he leans into S's kiss and his touch, gasping quietly into his mouth, and then kissing him deeper still. Fervent though he is, he's still feeling languid about the whole thing. There's no rush or urgency. If anything, he wants to go slow, to let them live in this moment long enough to feel utterly that they're both very much alive.
"Love how you sound when I touch you," he whispers, muffled, when he pauses for a breath. That is, he thinks, the closest he gets to making music these days, the little noises he coaxes out of S during sex or even when they're just kissing or else getting him to laugh. That's art, that's beauty, hearing clearly the ways in which he makes S happy. "You're so beautiful, Sihyun-ah. In every way."
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And if there's a part of him that finds a kiss like this a welcome distraction, too, well, he doesn't want to think about the reasons why that's the case. It doesn't matter right now that it's hard to believe that he could be as beautiful as all that when he can't even take his shirt off around his boyfriend. At least this time, they're both clothed, making it a bit less awkward. If ever there's a time to deal with that, though, and S isn't convinced that there is at all, then it won't be at one like this. They've spent enough time on what happened for tonight, and he would much rather just get lost in J for a while. He's pretty sure they both need that.
Instead of responding, he draws the kiss out, one hand cradling the back of J's head now. The other, still splayed across J's chest, angles slightly, his wrist shifting, so he can let his thumb brush J's nipple. "Fuck," he gasps, quiet and encouraging, even though he's the one with wandering hands. "Just — just like that. God, you feel good."
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As good as it feels to have some attention to his body, it's the way S sounds that leaves him all too aware of how turned on he is. He doesn't want to rush, and yet when S says just like that, all he wants is to give S anything he asks for, anything he likes. "Darling," he sighs against S's mouth, and gently bites his lower lip. Tempting though it is to pick up speed, to give S more, he doesn't; he simply continues what he's been doing, shifting pressure and angle but maintaining a moderate pace. It's common enough that he pursues pleasure headlong, but there's a lot to be said for this, too, drawing it out of S bit by bit, letting it build and build.
"Like that?" he echoes, hushed, kissing the corner of S's mouth. At a time like this, though he suspects if anyone ever heard him say such a thing they would think he was strange at best, there's comfort in hearing things like that and feeling S in his hand. Even when chasing after orgasms leads him to feel hazy and not altogether present, there's something grounding about it, something that keeps him in his body and in this moment, not off in his head god knows when. Even now, when he's not the one getting off, it's much the same; all that matters, all that exists, is here and now and this beautiful, loving, sweet boyfriend of his, perched in his lap, and the fact he can make him feel good.
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They've just shed too many tears for one night, dealt with too many horrible, heavy things. They deserve a break from that, a chance to get lost for a while. The things they've talked about tonight aren't going anywhere, even the worst parts of their history indelible, but the very fact that they've made it through so much more than should have been possible is all the more reason not to let that be all there is. If that means escaping into sex for a little while, so what?
"Yeah," he replies, a breathless echo, muffled into the next kiss he chases, unwilling to put any distance between them now. It's not like that isn't self-evident, or like he expects it to be surprising anyway. That he likes having J touch him, likes having that bit of bite in a kiss, is hardly anything new. He wants to say it all the same, encouraging even as he gets quietly, slowly that much more worked up. "Feels so good, fuck, I love you."
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So his past is a mess, but that's not new. It's just a mess in ways he didn't previously understand and still hasn't processed. His present is good, though. S went through hell to keep them safe, even as J treated him terribly, but they don't have to do either of those things now. He can be right here, one hand at S's waist, steadying him, the other working his dick in steady strokes, kissing the man he loves. Sex doesn't fix everything, but it doesn't have to. J can try and figure out all of this tomorrow, all the new information. What he already knew and understood, he can't undo, but he's worked hard these last months to try and put right as best he can, at least as far as S is concerned. Now he gets to try and relax, to lose himself in the pleasure of making S feel good.
"I love you," he murmurs back, though he has no intention of pulling back when he speaks. "I wish I knew better words to tell you how much I love you."
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But it is, too, a reminder of how lucky they've been, how much they got back when they shouldn't have been able to stand a chance. For the time being, it's too late and he's too tired to dwell on all of that now. The way J touches him feels too good, anyway, familiar and intent, something pleasantly tight in his chest as he rocks slightly into J's hand again. This, too, is probably ridiculous — him more dressed than not, perched in his boyfriend's lap to get a handjob. It's just the two of them, though, and it's hard to care when J feels like this, sounds like this, when he can feel himself getting gradually more wound up, a spring slowly coiling more tightly.
"Me too," he agrees, hushed against J's mouth, the words half-muffled again into another kiss. It isn't enough, has never been enough, just to tell J he loves him. There's weight in that, but it doesn't begin to encompass what J means to him, what he meant, really, even before they were ever a couple. J saw him, the real him, when no one else did; he could let his guard down and be honest with J in a way he couldn't with anyone else. It was love even back then, but it was something more than that, too, and it's only grown since. "We'll just have to both know we mean something more than that."
A soft sound rises up in his throat, just barely a groan. "Mm, and not just because you're so good at this."
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