beklemmt | 이젠 다시 돌아가고 싶지 않아

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이젠 다시 돌아가고 싶지 않아

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

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

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

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

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

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It's probably absurd for anything to be so sweet or romantic right now. It's been a long, difficult night, after all, full of panic and tears and confessions, the parts of their pasts they're both haunted by, albeit in very different ways. At the same time, though, it makes sense. For so long, it was the two of them against the world, seeking refuge in each other from all the awful shit they had to deal with on a regular basis. The way J was treated at school, the way society treated people like them, the grief he was left with after he lost his parents, through all of it, they had each other, something to hold onto when all the rest was at its worst. Then the world came between them instead, and they lost that. Tonight has been a stark reminder of that.

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."

J stifles a soft, fond laugh against S's mouth, chasing a quick kiss. "I'm glad that's not the only reason," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to the corner of S's mouth, his cheek, his jaw. If he's good at this, after all, it's for the simple reason that he knows what S likes — that he knows what feels good first hand, literally, and that he's had plenty of experience figuring out what works for S. A lot of what he did in the early days of their relationship, as they learned their way around each other's bodies and the whole idea of sex as an actual thing they could do, was to try to do for S what felt good for himself or what he thought might feel good. It's not like they had any other way to learn except from each other and their own instincts and desires. Even this, then, the fact S is very clearly enjoying this and that J knows what he's doing, is further evidence of how lucky they are, to have figured all of this out together, to have gotten this time together for him to rediscover it all.

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."

He wasn't always. The thought is unwelcome now, but there all the same, a faint whisper in the back of his head. It doesn't matter, though, right now. He wouldn't need to be everything anyway, as long as he can be something. Although they've had months back together now, although it's gone even better than he could have hoped, for the most part, there's a part of him that still feels a little awed by being wanted again, remembering too well what it felt like to listen to J's phone ring and ring with no answer, to leave messages with the thinnest hope that one might get returned. They're so far part all of that now, and it really isn't as if he holds a grudge. It's just hard to shake that awareness.

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.

It should have been enough. Even knowing the things J knows now, he can't help thinking that. It's too much too soon for him to understand all that happened, and the awareness that he was manipulated isn't yet strong enough to overcome the sense that he shouldn't have allowed that to happen. S always loved him so much, more than J could ever have imagined possible, and he should have understood that back then when he needed to.

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?"

S half-gasps, half-hums, nodding in eager approval as J picks up speed a little. The response, really, is as much for the way J bites at his neck as anything else, that hint of teeth making everything else that much better. Right now, of course, anything would do. It's hard to be picky when all he really wants is to be close, to keep feeling J's heart beating beneath his palm, to have this irrefutable proof that they somehow made it back to each other, to not have to fucking think for a little while. Sex has always been good for that. He might feel a little guilty for it if he weren't pretty sure J feels the same way. This is hardly the first time they've gotten lost in each other as a way to avoid dealing with far less pleasant things, after all, and right now, it feels deeply important to do so. They don't need sex to connect, but it's certainly a means of connection that he enjoys.

"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.

They both know perfectly well that J loves sex, but this is a big part of it for him. In those times when he doesn't just need to get out of his head entirely, when he can just enjoy the moment — which is most of the time, really, even a night like this — he wants to spend time lavishing attention on S. The way he shifts and whimpers, the rough sound of his voice pitched low, the familiar feel of him in J's hand, it's all something he cherishes. In a weird way, he's proud of it, honestly, knowing he's good at this, that all those little sounds are because of him, that S feels good because of him, that he knows S well enough to know how to make him come undone and how not to do so too quickly. It's deeply satisfying in its own right. And tonight, having to spend so much time thinking about how terrible things were in ways he didn't even know about, he just wants to do something for S. It's a very small thing. As much as he likes sex, he knows it's not really important. But it's something.

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."

It's a good thing, S thinks distantly, that he's already planning on calling out of work tomorrow. He doesn't have the presence of mind right now to care if J leaves marks on his neck; if anything, he wants them, the way he's often found to be the case when the subject has veered toward heavier things. He wouldn't want to have to worry about that in the morning. That's as much thought as he can spare right now for anything that isn't this, though. The rest, he can get back to later, when he isn't in the midst of getting a handjob from his boyfriend, rocking slightly into J's touch again, eager if not yet impatient. As good as that part may be, it's not really just about getting off, anyway. He would take anything right now that involved being close like this, able to feel J's skin and his heartbeat.

"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.

J doesn't hesitate, not when it comes to this. There's no cause to, the enjoyment he finds in kissing S's neck paling in comparison to giving S whatever he asks for, especially when he asks like that, less question, more request. He sounds so good, like he's exactly where J wants him, in that space between being very present and not at all. They both need that, he thinks. In the wake of all the hurt and fear, there's little they can do but try to process it, but he's learning that's hard to do when he doesn't sleep any. It's not an easy lesson; when his mind goes a mile a minute, it's difficult to sleep, almost impossible to stop trying to process things he can't wrap his head around. It's a necessary one, though, and he's trying, the easiest part of which is accepting that sometimes he needs to do something else.

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."

It's a good kiss, slow and deep, intent but not rushed, exactly what S would have thought he wanted if he had the presence of mind to give it that much consideration ahead of time. Instead, he's running mostly on instinct and want, the latter a slow, steady burn, sustained rather than desperate. J deepens the kiss and S leans into it, one hand still splayed across J's chest, fabric bunched around his wrist, the other sliding back into J's hair again, drawing him close. Just this would have been enough, really, except he's also not sure that anything would have been. Tonight has been too long and rough, and while J might be the one who woke up from such a horrible nightmare, S can't pretend he wasn't shaken by everything they had to discuss. It was all necessary, but that doesn't make it easy.

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."

He was so wrong for such a long time. J knows it now. It's hard not to be furious with himself for getting it all so wrong. That, too, is an incredibly difficult process, figuring out how to acknowledge how badly he fucked up so many things without just hating himself for it. When he does that, when he burrows down into the self-loathing, he makes things worse. He pulled away from S before. It's not a mistake he'll make again. Still, he's frustrated with himself all the same, and probably always will be, for ever having let himself believe he would be better off without S. Even if he was nudged into it, manipulated, he was wrong to let it happen.

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.

In the months since they arrived here, S has heard J say as much more than once. It's never any less breathtaking, though, or any less tempting to counter by commenting on his own luck. But that, too, is something that he figures doesn't need to be a competition. They've both been unbelievably fortunate, more so than should have been possible. To have gone through everything they've discussed tonight and then some and still be able to wind up here, together, is something that he doesn't think will ever stop being downright miraculous.

On one hand, sex is just sex. On the other, at a time like this, after the night they've had, it's as if it's representative of that fact. Even the slight awkwardness of the position doesn't detract from how good it feels to be tangled up together, his breath catching in his throat as J's teeth tug at his lip. "Mine," he agrees, soft and heated and affectionate, half-muffled into the kiss. "Like I'm yours." Were it not the middle of the night, he would want to slow down even more, to stop and kiss J all over, to run his hands over every inch of skin. For now, though, this is plenty, the beat of J's heart under his palm steady and grounding. "Feels so good."

He can only last so long and he knows it, acutely aware of a familiar tension gradually building. That's all the more reason to make the absolute most of it.

Even with all the fondness in S's voice, that simple word is enough to get under J's skin, a flash of heat and want pulsing through him. Possessive though he might be himself, he likes hearing it from S, too, likes how it feels to be so wanted and loved, to be reminded he has somewhere he belongs. Right now, he needs that. There's something soothing about it, even as it makes him aware of how much he wants to be touched, too. As satisfied as he is to wait, that desire is still there. It's second, though, to the way S sounds and feels, to getting lost in this embrace.

It's still enough to pull a small sound from him, muffled and wanting. They belong to and with each other. There's no greater comfort than that. By all rights, he should be unlovable and alone — or, really, dead. He shouldn't be here to have this. But he is, and even if the impulse to believe he doesn't deserve this is still there, he's gotten better at pushing it aside most of the time. It should be harder than it is tonight, he thinks, but it really isn't. S has given him a chance, yet again, to start looking at his life from a different angle, to consider that he might deserve more kindness than he's given himself till now.

In comparison, giving S a good handjob is next to meaningless, but he's still going to do so, following S's cues. "Yeah?" he murmurs, not drawing away, nose brushing against S's. "Just wanna make you feel good. Feel loved."

Just that little sound from J gets thoroughly under his skin, making him eager to return the favor, to make J feel as good as he does right now. It's a funny thing, really, if hardly new, to be more focused on J than himself. After the night they've had, though, and everything they've talked about, it's inevitable. Just like feeling J's heart beat under his hand is vital proof that he's here and alive and safe, it seems like the very least S can do to make him feel good now, to keep him here in the present and not lost in painful memory.

Still, he's hardly about to rush through this. He feels much too good for that, a soft whine in his throat as he steals another kiss. "You are," he says, "you do." He almost adds always, but he has just enough awareness to hold it back. As far as he's concerned, it's true, but he knows that J would likely refute it, and S has no interest in ruining the mood like that, not now that they've finally found a little peace, albeit through sex. To him, though, even when he's been crying in bed in the middle of the night, thinking about how J tried to kill him and did kill himself, just being with J at all makes him happy, too. He never wants to lose sight of how fucking lucky he is. He doesn't think he ever could.

Rather than saying any of that, he whimpers, needy and encouraging. "Getting — getting closer."

As aware as J may be of what they're doing, he's still tired, still relatively recently awoken from terrible dreams to face emotional conversations, and hearing this, it occurs to him that he really didn't think ahead.

And thinking that makes him realize he really didn't, because this isn't going to do much, this position, to keep them from needing to wash off. It'll be easier, though. They won't need to shower, and that's good enough.

Much more pressing is this, the way S feels in his hand, the way he sounds. Even if he hadn't said as much, J could hear from his voice how close he's getting, which means deciding how much longer he wants to drag this out. It wouldn't be difficult, nor a hardship, to keep S hovering a little more, edge him until he's bordering on desperate. Right now, when he very much wants the reminder of how thoroughly alive they both are and how good he can make S feel, it's tempting. Still, this is about as tender as a handjob can get, and it's late. That kind of thing can wait for later, maybe even tomorrow.

Forehead resting against S's, he moves his hand just a little faster, pressing an off-center kiss to S's lips. "That's right," he murmurs, "good. You sound so pretty like this, darling."

As badly as S wants to make this last, as soon as J starts moving a little faster, he knows he won't be able to. There's relief in that, too, impossible to pin down but there, and it isn't as if he really needs a reason for it anyway. Everything is just the slightest bit hazy, between his having woken up abruptly and spent so much time crying and quickly transitioned to this instead, but that's not a bad thing. Right now, all that matters is this, how good J can make him feel and being able to do the same in turn. He knows, somehow, on some level, that on any other occasion, J would probably want to drag this out and make him wait, but tonight doesn't quite strike him as the time to tease like that. Besides, they would both wind up waiting longer that way, and he's eager to make J feel good too, to feel more than just the beat of his heart.

"Feels so good," he murmurs against J's mouth, barely pulling away to draw a breath before he's kissing him again. Simple as all of this might be — and ill-advised, for that matter, in the middle of the night when they're both exhausted — he still can't get enough. "Fuck, that's perfect."

Even if S hadn't just told him as much, J would know he was getting close. It's in the way his voice and body strain, something in his demeanor that J just knows. He draws S in for another kiss, still stroking S, his pace steady and coaxing. "You're perfect," he murmurs, and it would be nonsense except he means it. He knows it isn't strictly true, that S has plenty of flaws of his own. He's only a person, after all. But he's J's, and J adores him, flaws and all. Without those foibles or with different ones, he'd be someone else, not the man J loves, so he's perfect exactly as he is.

"So perfect for me," he adds, a mumble against S's mouth, an amendment that hopefully will block any disagreement, if S still has the presence of mind for those. If J draws back from this moment, there's so much he doesn't know or understand, so much he hasn't yet processed, and he doesn't know where to start. He'd rather stay here, focused on S and one of the only things in the world he's sure of, which is that he wants to make this man happy in whatever ways he can. "Love you so much, Sihyun-ah."

At any other time, S very well might have argued that. He's far from perfect, and he doesn't really think he's even perfect for J, given the ways they've clashed in the past. Right now, though, he couldn't think about that even if he wanted to, which he doesn't. All he can do is focus on the sound of J's voice and the movement of his hand, the way his own chest gets tight when he tries to draw in a breath. It's been a long, painful night, but here they have a temporary reprieve, a chance to get lost in each other instead. If anything is perfect, it's that. It's them, together, individually flawed as they might both be. Ridiculous as the notion of fate might be, he really does think that it's supposed to be them, that they were meant to wind up with each other. There's no other possible explanation for their winding up here.

Even that is hard to think about, though, when J is touching him like this, when he can tell he's getting closer, unable to drag this out for any longer. "Love you," he whispers in response, hushed and intent, and then it's only a couple of moments more before he comes, a soft, choked moan in his throat when he does, body trembling as he slumps forward, breathless, against J. "Fuck," is all he manages next, mumbled into J's shoulder. It's as descriptive as he can currently get.

It's one of those moments — which are, admittedly, fairly frequent for him — where everything just gets all mixed together. It's how it should be, though, as far as he's concerned. He can be moved by the way S whispers to him and by the sweetness of him and the vulnerability, and still absurdly aroused by how it feels to hold him through this, one arm wrapped around S to steady him. He slows his pace considerably but doesn't stop right away, not wanting to be too abrupt. As much as he's very aware of his own desire, taking care of S is his first priority right now. "Beautiful," he murmurs, nosing at S's hair, pressing kisses there. "So beautiful."

Of course, now that S has come, J realizes that he has the same problem he's had many times before, which is not thinking this through enough to know what to do with himself now. He doesn't want to get this mess on the bed — though that might be a lost cause, really — but he doubts S wants it on his clothes either. Still, it might as well be that, he figures. They can changes clothes easier than they can change their sheets. He wraps his other arm around S as well, gently stroking his back. "Love you." He won't move to dislodge S from his lap; that's up to S. J doesn't want to assume he isn't now too tired for that.

Still shaky, his breaths shallow and unsteady, S can't argue that description of him. At a time like this, he's not sure he would, anyway. He might not agree, but it's still nice to be found beautiful when he's perched in his boyfriend's lap having just gotten off, and when he's dimly aware that he's spent a significant portion of tonight all blotchy and tear-streaked. If anything, the primary counterpoint he'd have is that J probably can't see him very well in the dim light of their bedroom, if his own eyesight is anything to go by. They've been awake long enough that his eyes have adjusted to the dark as well as possible, but it still isn't much of a view.

It doesn't need to be. Head still resting on J's shoulder, he turns it just enough to lean in and press a few absent, lazy kisses to the side of J's neck, something he doesn't need to see to be able to do. Even now, at once trying to catch his breath and start thinking clearly again and figure out their next move, he knows the way J feels well enough to act on instinct, savoring both the warmth of J's skin under his lips and the steady movement of J's hand against his back, the gentlest anchor.

"You next," he murmurs, still the slightest bit slurred, but sure. "Should we switch? I don't know what would be best."

J stifles a laugh, hugging S a little closer. Of course, he thinks. Of course, while he's sitting here, just holding S and telling himself that, if that's it, if S is too tired and wants to sleep again, then that's fine, S is gearing up to take care of J instead. And it is, that, really, not just euphemistically. He's all kinds of wound up, and the emotional kind isn't likely to be resolved any time soon. The physical kind, though, that can be taken care of and S is good at that.

"You sure, darling?" he asks anyway, turning his head to kiss whatever he can find, S's hair and his cheek. "You don't have to." He knows S probably doesn't feel beholden, exactly, but he's likely to want to even if he's too tired for it. "I don't know what would be best either. I think we already made a mess." He doesn't really care, though. Even if they end up too tired to change the sheets, well, at least they're on top of them. They can just toss the blanket aside and keep each other warm if they have to. It wouldn't be the first time. "But we can just sleep if you're too tired."

S arches a brow at that, skeptical and amused. Really, he probably shouldn't be surprised that J offers him an out. It's a sweet gesture, though, and completely unnecessary. Tired as he might be, he isn't so tired that he won't return the favor, and not because he thinks there's any expectation of reciprocation. Clearly there isn't. He just wouldn't want to leave it one-sided, and anyway, he likes getting J off, thinks it might do him just as much good as the last few minutes have. It's nice, being able to feel him, knowing that they're both alive and they made it. Tonight has been unexpectedly difficult. Granted, with how he feels right now, he's aware of that only in a distant sort of way, the weight of it having not yet settled back on him, but all the same, he knows it can only be good for them both.

"Silly," he says, quiet and impossibly fond. "Of course I'm not too tired. We can change and sleep after." That still doesn't solve the problem of how to do this, but they'll figure something out. They always do. Nosing at J's neck, he hums, thoughtful. "You could sit in my lap instead. Or I could go down on you."

J doesn't quite manage to bite it back this time, teeth catching on his lower lip but a laugh slipping out anyway. It's just really fucking cute how S sounds right now, like he's working out logistics for a puzzle or something, just a little thought exercise, and not offering J a blowjob in the dark, probably not that long before dawn. And J would be lying, of course, if he said that he didn't feel a twinge of arousal at the idea — on top of the arousal that's become just a constant through the last while — but it's still oddly adorable.

He tips his head away, a pointed hint, his neck more exposed where S is. "You're silly," he counters. "I just don't want you falling asleep with my dick in your mouth." He's not sure that that's the offer he wants to take, actually, but it's the funnier mental image. Still, he takes S at his word on this. Besides, he doesn't really want S to go to sleep and leave him to handle this on his own, because being awake and tired but still too alert to sleep because of having to deal with his stupid dick would just lead to being awake and sad, trying to sort through all they've talked about tonight while far too tired to do so.

He waits a moment more, trying to think about what he actually wants here, which is very difficult when he mostly just wants S to touch him. As incredibly tempting as the blowjob is, J decides, there's always tomorrow. Tonight, he wants to be close, tangled up in each other, as if being able to kiss S will keep him safe — keep both of them safe, really. "But I wanna sit in your lap," he adds once he's sure.

He still feels a little shaky, still trying to catch his breath, but S can't help the soft laugh he lets out in turn, between J's doing so and what he then says. There isn't really any chance of that happening, he thinks, but the mental image of it is deeply amusing, and he's sure it would actually be more frustrating than the two of them ending this now. He doesn't want that, though, either. Tired as he is, he's awake, too, the result of everything they've talked about tonight and, probably, how frightening it was to wake up the way he did, to the sound of J sobbing.

He doesn't want to think about that now, wants to focus instead on the way J feels and sounds under infinitely preferable circumstances like these. His own orgasm does, admittedly, have him feeling a little drowsier than before, but it isn't so much that he can't get J off in turn. They both need this, he suspects, a chance to hold each other for a while, to be reminded in the most unmistakable way possible that they made it, that they're here and together.

"Okay," he says, quiet and fond. "I promise I won't fall asleep yet." The difficult part is bringing himself to move when he feels good and safe and warm perched in J's lap like this. As much as he might like to, though, it would be too needlessly complicated to stay in this position, so with one more brief kiss, he finally, slowly makes himself draw back, sitting beside J and immediately beckoning him closer, any distance seeming like too much under the circumstances. It's a shame they won't be able just to lie down and go back to sleep after this, but they'll have to make it as quick as possible when they get changed and move any blankets they need to off the bed. "Come here."

It's a very simple, direct phrase, but it still sends a little shudder done J's back, and he sits up a little straighter, not yet moving. There's just a bit of light — not much, just tiny glimmers that break past and between the curtains, dim enough he didn't even notice them when he first woke. Not that he noticed much, and it's possible that they're actually new. He's not sure if it's that late yet, that the sun might be slowly starting its ascent, or if he's just adjusted. Either way, he has adjusted, and between the two, he can sort of see S, enough that he gives himself a moment just to look. All the details are fuzzy in shadow, but even if it were darker yet, he would know that silhouette anywhere.

It's just a pause and then he slides onto his knees, turning to face S, tugging his underwear down. Getting out of them is a clumsy affair, but they're going to have to change anyway, and he wants to give S all the access he could possibly need. Once that's done, he slips the rest of the way forward, easing himself onto S's lap, hands resting at S's shoulders as he leans in to kiss him. It doesn't take very long, but it's sort of dizzying, moving in the darkness, everything just shadow and breath and fabric and a tension tugging at his spine, a desire to be touched and to be held. It's sort of oddly vulnerable, being here in just his shirt, and he wonders if S feels that way all the time, but he's too tired to hold onto that thought. Anyway he's been much more vulnerable in much worse ways tonight already. However turned on he might be, this is actually the comforting part of the night. "No sleeping yet," he cautions, softly teasing, leaning his forehead against S's. "I love you."

Although he can't say he would mind being able to see J better, S doesn't need a good view to be able to do this. He knows J, knows the weight in his lap and where his hands will be when he reaches up to touch, as well as he would know his own body. In this instance, too, there's something peaceful about the dark, or at least it seems like it to him, like a blanket and a shield all in one, comforting and safe. When he first woke up, with as out of it as J seemed to be, S didn't want to startle him by turning the light on, even if, in retrospect, it might have been helpful for him to see where he was. Now, instead, it's more that he doesn't want to break the spell, wants to let them stay in this moment, tender as it is.

That and, of course, he would have to pull away, which he has no desire to do. Instead, he nods in agreement, a gesture he suspects will be more felt than seen, though it's been long enough that he isn't totally sightless in the dark now. "No sleeping," he echoes, hushed and gentle. His hands move as he speaks, sliding up the outside of J's thighs and hips, one moving around to the small of his back as the other slips between them to wrap around J's dick. S strokes him slowly at first, but steadily, leaning in for another kiss as he does, though he keeps it soft, pressing another to the corner of J's mouth, then his cheek, then close to his ear. "I love you."

He's said it countless times; he'll say it countless more. Maybe it's overkill, but he doesn't think so. Tonight, if anything, it seems painfully necessary, a reminder in its own right that they're here and safe, that what he feels for J could never change.

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