이젠 다시 돌아가고 싶지 않아

[beklemmt]

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.

Comments

[hismelody]

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.

[beklemmt]

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.

[hismelody]

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."

[beklemmt]

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."

[hismelody]

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."

[beklemmt]

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.

[hismelody]

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."

[beklemmt]

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."

[hismelody]

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.

[beklemmt]

Though S moves slow and gentle, keeping J steady, even though J knows what's next, he'll still lets out a muffled cry at that first touch, faintly embarrassed a moment after. Though there's no way for him to ignore his own desire entirely, he did a good job of putting it to the side for a while, and it's very much come to the fore now. He leans his head to the side, but only a little, giving S room, not wanting to pull away. That electric burst of need and relief that rolled through him when S took hold of him eases a bit, settles into a gentler version of itself, that thing where satisfaction and want sit right on top of each other. He curls his fingers in S's shirt, eyes fluttering shut. It's grounding at the same time that it isn't, which is precisely what he needs right now. With S touching him, he can't be anywhere but entirely physically present, but it's a lot easier to feel good at the same time.

"I love you," he murmurs a few moments later, his mouth catching up to his brain. "Sihyun-ah..." He's been so caught up in trying to stay present, trying to make sure all they've discussed and learned tonight doesn't creep in, but because that mostly took the form of focusing on S and making him feel good, he didn't quite realize he needed to relax until he started to relax. "Ah, fuck, that feels good. You feel good."

[hismelody]

It's probably a good thing, S thinks, that he got off first and so recently, that little cry from J unexpected and immediately working its way under his skin. It's gratifying, though, too. Feeling wanted always is, and maybe especially at a time like this, when it all but goes without saying but comes on the heels of a night so fraught. They must have both needed it, a chance to feel grounded and loved and whole, so unmistakably alive. If he can give J that, and a sound like that suggests that he can, then he'll be satisfied, and both of them hopefully better able to get some more rest. He's not sure what time it is, but it's definitely not late enough just to stay awake, all the more so after such an emotionally draining night.

Right now, he isn't thinking much about sleeping or about the time, too focused on what he's doing. Even if touching J is practically instinct, he still wants to make it as good as he can, to give J a temporary respite from all the other shit they've been dealing with. Maybe this is a strange way to be getting his boyfriend to relax, but he doesn't really think it is. Anyway, if it works, it works, and he's hopeful that this will. "That's it," he murmurs, the words slightly muffled against J's neck when he ducks his head to press a kiss there, though he lifts it again a moment later, finding J's mouth with his own. His hand keeps the same steady pace; despite the hour, this isn't the time to rush. "That's all I want. To make you feel good."

[beklemmt]

It's utterly intoxicating. Not that J lacks for attention from S or even concerted attention like this, but there's something so heady about having all of S's focus trained on the sole desire of making him feel good that all but does the work for him. It keeps him here, present and alive and trying to keep himself from thrusting into S's touch. As long as he's here like this, he can't be anywhere else, not lost in his head. After tonight, he's pretty sure this is the only way he's going to be fit to get any sleep anyway.

"I do," he says, mostly air, lips brushing S's cheek before he kisses him again. Under his palm, he can feel the steady beat of S's heart, faint through the fabric but strong enough to be palpable all the same. "Always make me feel so good, darling." It's true in a way that's much bigger than this moment, and J's pretty sure that's not clear in his words. To be fair, he's hardly at his most articulate, tired from lack of sleep and crying, head light, entirely wrapped up in how it feels to have S touching him like this, firm and steady and just how he likes. "Not just like this. In every way." Even now, he's too aware of how, for a long while, that wasn't true, and he made that clear then. He has to make it clear now that he was wrong.