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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 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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At a time like this, in the wake of such serious discussions and revelations, everything feels terribly important and poignant. Even a fucking handjob just feels like more proof of their bond. He's tired and lovestruck and sentimental, and as shaken as he's been tonight, he's thankful, too, that S isn't going to work tomorrow, that they can spend a day sleeping in and cuddling and recovering, just enjoying each other's presence. He needs that the same way he needs this: probably not in any literal sense, but very much a need, a comfort, a reminder that he's safe and alive and loved, that he can say the same of S — in spite of himself, yes, but also because of him, something he'll need time to believe.
Nudging at S's neck, he breathes in, deep, savoring the closeness, the warmth, the familiar scent of his skin. "Everything," he adds, kissing S's neck before he continues. "That's what I mean. You're everything."
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Right now, though, there's nothing but this. Maybe he is everything, because J certainly is to him, nothing outside of the two of them existing. His head falling to the side to make room for J to keep kissing his neck, S lets out another quiet, needy sound. If nothing else, he knows he can trust that J means what he's said, and to him, that means the world. "Yeah," he whispers, voice thick with want. "Everything. You are to me, too."
It still feels inadequate, perhaps because J was the one to say it first, S just echoing his turn of phrase now. It's something, though — closer, maybe, to encompassing the depth of what he feels than a simple I love you, though it's not as if he doesn't. With what they've been through, though, a love that could survive the sort of obstacles they've faced, that could somehow manage to reunite them like this, he isn't actually sure anything would be enough to describe it in words. There are none that he knows, anyway, for something like this.
"Mm, fuck," he says, a soft, encouraging exhale. "A little more." He's still not in a hurry — this feels far too good for that — but realistically speaking, there's still only so long he can last, and he doesn't want to make J wait too long to get off, too.
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He does now, though. That has to be enough, if only for right now. Sometimes that's all he can do, make himself believe something is enough just for today. Sometimes that's more than he can do, admittedly, but he tries. It's not so difficult to do now, anyway, when S sounds like this, at once hard and soft in J's embrace. He makes it easy to stay in the moment. "That's right," he murmurs, stroking S just a little faster now, teeth grazing along S's neck, biting gently. He has no intention of hurrying S along, but if he says a little more, then that's what J will give him. "Like that?"
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"Yeah," he answers, a hoarse whisper, his head still tipped sideways to give J's mouth room against his neck, awkward as it might be to stay in this position. "Fuck, just like that, perfect." It's a difficult line to walk, actually, not wanting to come too soon, not wanting to try to drag this out all night. As good as this feels, he's eager to return the favor, too.
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And anyway it's easy to get lost in this, his eyes closing as he sucks at S's neck, gives him another little bite before he continues. "Good," he murmurs. "Fuck, even your skin tastes good."
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"Kiss me," he murmurs, a soft, breathless plea. Reluctant though he is to have J pull away from his neck, he wants to do something. It's the one downside, really, to being in this position. As convenient as it is in some ways, he still wishes he didn't have to wait to reciprocate. If nothing else, though, at least he can kiss J in the meantime.
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This is a particularly good something else. He lifts his head at once. Dark though it is, he finds S's mouth quickly, instinctively. Instinctive, too, is the way his hand moves a little more firmly on S, if no faster, as he leans in to kiss him. He doesn't wait, either, to deepen it, but he's gentle all the same. There's need here and desire, but there's no urgency tonight, not in this. He wants a space for softness, a space simply to love each other. They need that, too. They need that more. And as distracted as he got by S's neck, this is better still. Kissing S just feels right — feels safe and like home and still exciting all bundled into one. That's something he's found over and over again in the times they've been together; there's comfort in knowing each other so well and in knowing they still have things to learn, excitement in discovery and familiarity both. It feels, right now, a little like being younger, too impatient to take their time to find a better position, too caught up in each other, tempered by the sweetness of not being in any rush at all. If nothing else, J is secure in this, in them. At a time like this, that still feels like a miracle. For so long, he didn't have this at all.
"Sihyun-ah," he murmurs against his mouth, taking a moment to draw in a slow, deep breath. "Love you."
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This is. Being with J is the easiest thing in the world; it always has been. Even when they were younger and first figuring this out, awkwardly fumbling through sex, the part that actually involved them being together was always practically second nature, as if, even then, they were like pieces slotting into place, finding where they belonged. For him, no matter how bad things were for a while, that feeling has never once faded. He kisses J now like by doing so, he could hold onto that, keep the two of them right here, where they're supposed to be. Maybe he can. He really does believe, if only because he has to, that their finding each other here wasn't an accident or a coincidence but something that was meant to happen, their bond too strong for them to be kept apart.
"I love you," he echoes, voice just a bit strained now, but deeply, unmistakably earnest. There may only be so much longer he can feasibly last with the way J is touching him, but he means to hold out while he can, to make the absolute most of it and then make it just as good for J in turn. They both need that, he's pretty sure. "Fuck, I love you so much."
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This is right. The way S holds him is so right, steady and firm and gentle and loving, his hand a comforting weight at J's chest. "I'm so lucky," he murmurs, rough from being hushed. "So lucky to be yours." He nips lightly at S's lower lip, more tug than bite, and kisses him again, slow and deep. After the frenzy this night has been, the panic and hurt and fear, the moments when he could barely breathe, he's grateful for this, too. It's nice just to slow down and let himself get wrapped up in this moment, passionate as ever, but much more relaxed than he's been since he woke.
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