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

[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.