beklemmt | (no subject)

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For all that J has always had to be the one to urge S to be pragmatic and serious, he's the one who's driven entirely by his feelings and desires, by a mind he knows is warped and wrong without knowing all of why or how. It's hard to want things so badly and not to be able to trust that, or to trust the wrong thing, the wrong need. Finding a middle ground feels all but impossible sometimes, and he ends up pulled back and forth by a constantly contorting sense of logic — ruled by reason without knowing if it's actually madness, ruled by his heart while ignoring the things he loves.

Right now, in this moment, he feels sure of what he wants. There are doubts, there are fears, there's always a shadow cast over every damn thing he does, but he's sure of this much, at least. If he can't be steady, if he can't be fully certain of his own self, he can be sure of S. While that scares him a little, feeling himself trying to lean for support on the same person he tried to push away, the same person he tried to kill, it also feels like one of the more sensible things he's done in a long time. Judging by his willingness to take J back, S isn't all that much saner than he is, but he's a hell of a lot more trustworthy.

And he's sweet, and he's loving, and every brush of his lips, every place his body presses into J's, rings out with that. And maybe J isn't ready for this, because he's been through a lot today and he's worn out and emotional, and just being kissed like he's the most precious person ever to exist almost makes him feel like he might cry again. He knows he doesn't deserve this. It isn't the first time he's rushed blindly, though, into things he knows he shouldn't do or have.

"We," he breathes out, "we should —" He doesn't know. He isn't sure. He means to stop kissing S for a moment, but ends up kissing him elsewhere instead, lips trailing along his jaw, his cheek. "I don't know." Stop, his brain supplies, and slow down. Be careful. Instead he lifts his head again for another kiss.

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There are plenty of things they really should do, all of them falling under the broader definition of not this. S has barely begun to explain this place, although admittedly, he would be hard-pressed now to try to figure out what else is imperative to tell J about it, his thoughts not quite coherent enough for that. He suggested food earlier, which was probably sensible; it seems likely that it might have been a while since J last ate. Changing his own clothes probably wouldn't be a terrible idea. And still he knows that it's half-insane to want this in the first place, to have J here at all, never mind to be comfortable being pinned between his dresser and the man who tried to kill him, the press of J's body only serving to make him want more.

They should stop, calm down, catch their breaths. Leave his bedroom before the setting alone proves too tempting. Talk about where the two of them are going from here, maybe, though S thinks they've done enough of that to at least be able to assume that it's something. So he nods again, trying to collect himself enough to say any of that — well, any of it but the part about how he shouldn't want this at all — but then J is kissing him again, and immediately that takes precedence. Logic doesn't matter half as much as the warmth of his lips. Right now, it's hard to imagine how anything could. It's been so long, after all. Or, really, it's been as much time has passed since they were out on the couch, but it's as if his body remembers both how that felt and how long it had been since the last time anyone kissed or held him before then, the combination of the two making it harder to listen to the more sensible voice in his head. This feels like something they very much should keep doing, too.

Still, even preoccupied with kissing J, his lips gently parting to deepen the kiss, S can't shut out that I don't know. That J kissed him again instead of stopping seems telling enough on its own, but S doesn't want to push too hard, not with the way they crashed to an abrupt stop earlier and not when he can't bear the thought of doing anything that might drive J away or throw him off-kilter now. Needing to inhale makes him finally draw back, his hands just a little steadier on J's hip and in his hair in contrast to the question in his eyes when he tries to catch J's gaze.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks, breathless, thinking it will be clear enough in his own expression that he doesn't want to. He will, though, if J would rather, and it feels important to make that known, too. "We don't have to. But we can."

He knows what he should say. He knows the smart path here. In this, at least, J can be reasonably sure that he's right. As badly as he wants to continue what they started earlier, as much as he wants to get his hands on S and more, it's not smart. He's too out of it, wound up from the stress and the need and the emotional rollercoaster of a day it's been, to have any idea how they can possibly go any further than they're going right now without one or both of them seeing or thinking of things they don't want. Eventually they're going to have to figure that out, he knows that, but not right now. There's too much in his head already and he doesn't want to go back to the part where he can't think about anything but how vile he is and how he doesn't deserve S's kindness, never mind his love. He can't handle that right now, he knows he can't.

There's something in S's expression, a softness, a patience, a chance for J to say all of that — some of it, anyway. But there's also the flush in his cheeks, lips full and slightly parted, and he's beautiful, the kind of want in his eyes that J always liked so much. How is he supposed to say no to that? How is he supposed to be rational about this? It feels at once like and nothing at all like the early days after they first confessed their feelings had shifted, heady and eager, ready to get lost in each other.

"I don't want to," he says, a little breathless himself, moving his hands from S's waist to hold onto the dresser behind him, pinning him in. He's ready to lean in and start kissing him again when a shred of sense kicks in. "I don't — I don't think I can see... what I did and —" Even saying it is difficult, a little sobering when he wants to be anything but. "I'm not ready for that." He'll have to learn to be, sooner rather than later. He'll have to figure out how to see the damage he's done without breaking down, especially if they're going to be together. It's just too much, too soon right now. "But I don't want to stop."

S probably shouldn't be relieved, and he knows it. If J had wanted to stop, he would have unhesitatingly done the sensible thing and been glad that he asked before they got any further carried away with each other. Part of him is still sure that that would be the smart move here, to slow down, to figure out what they're doing before they go ahead and do it, especially with how emotional today has been. That's all the more reason, though, why it's so easy to get caught up in J and his closeness. For too fraught a moment earlier, it seemed like he might lose J all over again. To have made it here again now feels almost as miraculous as J being alive at all, and S missed this long before he had any idea that he would never have it again. After everything, including everything today, he thinks they ought to be able to enjoy themselves, and each other, for a little while. All the obstacles still ahead of them will be there later. The two of them will, too — he hopes, he prays — but still, J's hands and mouth are addictive before they've done hardly anything at all, and S wants nothing more than to get lost in him for a while. To get to have a chance to feel good for a while, both of them, savoring this impossible reunion.

Really, actually, that comes second to wanting what J wants, not to push him away or too far, but confirmation that J would rather keep going too satisfies that particular need. S nods, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face, one that fades to a more serious expression again with what J says next. That much isn't surprising. They will, he thinks, have to figure out what to do about that before long, but for the time being, at least, he'd expected that might be the case, and it isn't as if it shouldn't be easy enough to work around. "Alright," he says, holding J's gaze for a moment so it's clear that he means it, that he understands the gravity of what's being said and what isn't. For that matter, S knows that he's going to have to try not to look at the scars on J's arm, and he's not the one who put those there. So he nods once more, in agreement and understanding both, and tilts his head in to kiss J again, soft and brief this time. "You don't have to see them. I don't want to stop, either."

They'll make it work, he thinks, already considering possibilities that he couldn't let himself dwell on before now. "Just want you."

Sometimes the anxiety runs so deep that J only half-notices it; it permeates his being until he can't completely tell it apart from just who he is. It isn't until relief sweeps through him that recognizes how worried he was. Eventually, he's going to have to figure out how to say these things, he knows that. He promised to let S know if he's hurting, but he should probably be better at telling him the good things, too. He was never particularly good at any of that when he needed to be. Now, though, he's not sure how to express it. By all rights, even alluding to the fact that he tried to kill S should put a stop to all their desire, and yet here they are, poised on the edge of a precipice, and he's so relieved it just about tips over into gratitude. He doesn't want to see right now, doesn't want to think about it. He can't yet, not without falling apart, and he's only just managed to somewhat pull himself back together. Even that, he's pretty sure, he couldn't have managed on his own.

But this is part of that, the way S touches him keeping him grounded and centered, better able to breathe even as S takes his breath away. He doesn't want to lose that yet. Besides, it's been too long since they had this — months, too many of them. He's not even entirely sure when they last slept together; he was too surly near the end, he knows that, halfway out the door. Memories of S pulled close to him in moments of weakness don't come anywhere near how it feels to have him for real.

They'll figure out their way around the scars on their bodies. As badly as he'd like to undress S entirely, not yet getting to see him naked is a small price to pay for not having a meltdown in the middle of trying to have sex. Later they'll figure out how to get there. Right now, he just wants S any way he can get him.

Leaning into him, gripping the dresser, he brushes a kiss against S's cheek. "We'll figure it out," he says, a slight lilt to his voice making it a question despite his effort to sound sure. He takes a deep breath, drawing back to look at S again, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheek, tracing the slight flush. Pretty, always so pretty. "I want you," he says, much more certain now, mouth tipping into a small, crooked smile. "Probably still stupid, but I want you so badly."

Those are such simple words, and this isn't even the first time today that S has heard them. It feels different now, though, less reckless, more sure. While it may still have been the smarter choice to stop and slow down and not fall right into bed together, this isn't the most ill-advised decision they could have made. They've talked about it, at least a little, enough to know what they need to avoid, enough that it doesn't seem as wildly impulsive as it was earlier. It just feels right, and the very fact of being wanted cuts S to his core, makes him feel weak and pliant and that much hungrier for more. There was a time when such a thing was commonplace, when their wanting each other was just a self-explanatory part of their lives, when hearing J say so was something about which S wouldn't need to think twice. He didn't know, then, about the turn their relationship would take; despite their problems and J's moods, he didn't entirely expect that J would actually leave until he was already gone. Everything that followed would have been even more impossible to predict. The same is true of this, though, and for once, it's in the best way possible, hearing what J says now even better than it ever was for the time they've been apart.

It's still crazy, probably, to want this. To feel as good as he does with J so close to him, to have just a brush of fingers against his cheek make him shudder again, words nearly lost to him. Now that they've decided to do this, S can too easily feel how the same desperation from earlier could overtake him again, and he tries not to let it, focusing instead on the soft, beautiful curve of J's smile and how much it means both to see it again after the day they've had and to be the cause of it. So often, trying to get J to smile has been one of his only goals. To have done so now does as much as their proximity to make his heart beat a little faster, the ache in his chest this time a welcome one.

"Probably," he agrees, his voice gradually dropping until it's not much more than an exhale, his gaze still lingering for a moment on J's mouth before he looks up to meet his eyes. "But I don't care." That much, he's sure, doesn't need to be said now, but he answers that smile with a slight, breathless one of his own, making it as much of a joke as a statement of fact in this situation could be. He leans in a little, not quite closing the distance between them again, staying back only just far enough to speak. "You have me."

He said that before, too, he's pretty sure. It doesn't matter; it bears repeating. He's always been J's, perhaps now more so than ever.

It doesn't make sense that they get to have this moment. It's not even about whether or not J deserves this reprieve from his guilt; he knows he doesn't. It's just that he should be dead. He meant to be. He should be out of S's life. He meant to be that, too, a long time ago. And, no, he doesn't deserve it, he knows that, and it isn't right that he gets what he must have stolen from others, but somehow knowing that makes him want it even more. S sees him now and he still keeps looking, watching, and J knows that gaze, the subtle, simmering hunger in it. It's been too long since he last saw it, but he remembers how this goes.

The look alone, the smile and the need together, would be enough to undo him. But S's voice drops low like that, and J feels it, pulling tight in his gut, shuddering up his spine. It's intensely romantic and arousing all at once, and it takes a great deal of restraint for him not to act on that immediately. He's not always the most patient, but this, he thinks, is worth taking their time for.

"Still mine?" he murmurs, pressing a brief, soft kiss to S's lips. It's not quite the question it should be; he already knows. That in itself is exhilarating, in a way that only the most impossible things can be. Maybe he should have known all along. S has never strayed, never even seemed to consider the possibility of someone else, but J had his doubts all the same, even if most of them were rooted in his own self-loathing. Somehow the fact that S still loves him is utterly unbelievable and entirely right all at the same time. He's always loved S, always been a little in love with him, too, even before he figured out that was a thing he could be.

"Like I'm yours," he adds. It's been so long since he said anything like that at all that he feels almost shy about it. He's done so much running, though, so much hiding, most of it from himself, a lot of it from S. There's no need for that now, though. S has always known him better than anyone else, but that's truer now than ever. There's nothing to hide this time, nothing to try and suppress or break free from, just this. Hand slipping back to curl in S's hair, he draws him closer to kiss again, for real this time, slow and deep and sure.

S isn't sure if it's the question or the addendum that draws a faint but unmistakable sound from him, muffled a moment later into J's kiss. One seems just as likely as the other; it could easily be J's asking — asserting, really — that S is his, or his returning the sentiment. The first part, S knows without question to be true. It's a basic, indelible fact of himself, as permanent as the scars on his chest but so much better. Even when it hurts, even when loving J is what almost cost him his life, he wouldn't have it any other way. He knows, he knows, that he shouldn't want this, that he shouldn't feel better, safer, for being in the arms of and wanted by someone who's done the things J has, that it can't say anything good about him that he does. That's S's own to make his peace with, though, and still something he's accepted. He wouldn't be doing this at all if he weren't sure. It wouldn't be fair to either of them otherwise. What he feels instead is a bone-deep certainty, a sense that he's finally where he's supposed to be, that this is something intrinsically right despite all of the many, many reasons it should be wrong. In a strange sort of way, one that he can't quite define, that makes it all the more appealing.

With J's hand in his hair, S melts into the kiss, no longer bothering to try to hold himself back or hide his hunger now. He wants, so much that he's a little dizzy with it, unable to keep track of the specific desires that filter through his thoughts and yet eager, too, for whatever J wants to give him. It's still not the same frenzied desperation from earlier, as if trying to cling to something that might be fleeting. He doesn't know what will happen after this — despite how J seems now, S doesn't know if he'll be able to stay as he said he'd try to — but he trusts it, sure of the two of them even when he can't say the same about anything else. Still, it's been a long time since he had this, and he wasn't supposed to have been able to at all, and everything about it is heady and intoxicating, familiar and new, impossible to get enough of.

"Always," he answers belatedly, leaning back only when it becomes absolutely necessary to take a breath. He doesn't go far when he does, the hand on J's hip sliding around to his ass, pulling him in close. "Always yours." He always has been; he always will be. Not for the first time today, he thinks that if nothing has changed that yet, then nothing ever could, his devotion unwavering even in the face of all that's happened and all that's hanging over them still.

Edited 2020-12-26 09:34 (UTC)

Even now, J wants to protest a little. He doesn't understand how or why S loves him the way he does. That was true when he left and truer still now. He's not someone S should love. Except that they both know that now, not just him. Somehow it's all the horrible things he's done that, just for this little while, bring J a kind of peace. That S can still love him in the face of all that is bewildering and wonderful, overwhelmingly so. He wants to tell him that and he doesn't know how. Even if it wouldn't mean dwelling too much on things neither of them want to think about now, he wouldn't know how to say as much. There was a time when being so valued by S just made him feel more worthless still, a failure, a liar. Right now, it might be the only thing that matters at all.

And even if it isn't, it's hard to think about anything else but this. It feels good just to have S's hands on him, his hair between J's fingers, and to hear what he already knows. He gives a little gasp when S pulls him closer, breath hitching. If he can't find the words or the right way to explain to S how much he needed this — needed him — at least he can try to show him. "Always," he echoes. No matter what happens, he knows that will be true. He tried to stop it, but it's impossible to fight; he can hold it off a little, but it never goes, not really.

And S is everything, pulling J in even as he falls into him, solid ground that has him floating, sanctuary and sin, satisfaction and need all in one. And J — it's been a long time, too long since he had this, too long since he felt even a fraction this good in any way at all, but he still knows how to push S's buttons and get under his skin, as much instinct as memory. He's barely pulled back from another kiss before his teeth graze S's lower lip again, catching, tugging slightly. Somehow he's the one who ends up swallowing back a whine, hips rocking forward into S's, just enough, not enough. "Always thought about you," he says, a low confession, voice already a little rough, "when I touched myself. Never enough. Wanted it to be you."

It is, for a moment, too much, in the absolute best way possible. The bite of J's teeth against his lip, the press of his hips, the sound of his voice and what he actually says — S isn't sure if it's any or all of them that prompt an involuntary, helpless groan from him. If he were thinking straight, he'd think that it's unexpected. Between J's journal and this afternoon, he knows now that J still had feelings for him in those months he was gone. With the distance he was trying to enforce, though, S wouldn't have imagined that he was still so present, on J's mind that much. It could make him a little sad, if he let it, considering J alone, thinking about him, while he was just trying to get J to come home, but that isn't worth dwelling on now. He's here, they both are, and they have a hell of a lot of lost time to make up for. Circumstances aside, it's gratifying, too, arousing in its own right to think about J wanting him that much.

He wants to say show me; he wants to say let me. Neither seems like enough. Instead, he nods, a jerky, uneven little gesture. "Me too," he admits, punctuating the words with an off-center, breathless kiss. There was never anyone else he could have thought of, no one he's ever wanted like this. Sometimes he's thought that there never would have been — a naïve thought, surely, when he's young and has years ahead of him, but mostly it's nice now to know that he won't have to find out one way or the other, back now with the only person with whom he's ever belonged, the only one who could make him feel like this. He can't even bring himself to wonder if it's pathetic to have been fantasizing about his ex for months now that his ex isn't his ex anymore. "Just made me want you more."

Again, it's hard to settle on any one thing he wants now when it's been so long and all of it is so good. The words that spill out of him next come without thought, instinct or maybe old habit, or just sheer desire. "Want you inside me," he says, meaning past and present, his cheeks hot and flushing a darker pink when his brain catches up to his mouth, his gaze dropping slightly.

J can't begin to count how many times he's heard S say something to that effect, or even said it himself, but it's been so long. It catches him by surprise now, a quiet moan spilling out of him, and, god, he's ridiculous. S hasn't even touched him and he's hazy with want from kisses and words alone.

The sight of him just makes it that much better, J leaning back to get a better look at him, cupping his cheek again. He thinks his own must be flushed, too, warm from the slight self-consciousness that comes with being so open and intimate after so much separation. So much of this is instinctive and easy, but he's not really used to it anymore either. Those words loop in his head, sending sparks straight through him, and he wants nothing more than to give S exactly what he wants.

Or, at least, he wants, but what he wants happens to coincide very neatly with what S wants anyway.

Still, when he presses back in for another kiss, it's softer, less insistent. As feverish as he is, he doesn't want to rush it or leave S to wonder if that's all he wants. He doesn't really have anything to compare this to, but he's pretty sure the sex wouldn't be nearly as good if they didn't love each other so much, know each other so well. "I want that, too," he says, his other hand moving down again to slide under S's shirt to rest at his waist. Even if he's not ready for him to take it off, that's no reason he can't do this much, just to feel him, warm and solid and soft. "You always feel so good."

As much as he likes where they are, he can't follow through if they're just leaning against a dresser. Maybe on the dresser, but he'd rather not this time, not for their first time back together. So he takes a careful step back, hand dropping from S's cheek to fist in his shirt, drawing him along with him, back toward the bed.

More flustered by his own words than he probably ought to be, S trembles a little even as he leans into J's palm. It's silly, probably, with as long as they spent together, as many times as they've slept together; once, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying such a thing. With as long as it's been, though — and maybe a little bit because he's the one who was left, who was rejected, even though he knows now that J still wanted him all that time too — it's too difficult not to be a little embarrassed by how much he wants and how badly he wants it. There's no taking it back once said, though, and really, he wouldn't even if he could, and not just because J agrees. That much isn't exactly surprising, anyway, when they both said they wanted to keep going. He still can't quite manage to hold back a faint little whine at what J has to say about it, far too needy for how little time has passed. After earlier, though — after all the time they were apart — he supposes that's not so unexpected, either.

As ever, he follows along readily when J starts to move back towards the bed, already missing the contact of a moment before but knowing it will be better this way. It's only the hand in his shirt, the reminder of why he's still wearing it, how much he already wants to get J undressed again that cuts through the haze of lust and gives S one quick flash of a sensible thought. The last time he was on his back with J on top of him was under vastly different circumstances than this, and neither of them needs a reminder of that, a probable repeat of what happened on the couch earlier. S registers it and then puts it away, too wrapped up in J to dwell on it for long, already having been considering other possibilities anyway in the name of J not having to see the scars on his chest. As much as he might like to be close like that, it's probably for the best this time that they aren't.

None of that changes anything for the moment, his eyes heavy-lidded as he moves towards the bed, leaning in to kiss J again before they've quite gotten there. "So much for getting you clothed," he says, his voice low and teasing and a little hoarse, as he slips his own hand under the hem of the shirt he lent J, tugging it up. There's no need for them both to stay half-dressed. "Off."

J can't tell anymore if it makes more sense or no sense that, after the day he's had, he's so ready for this. What he does know is how good it feels to be so damn aware of his own skin, his own body, for reasons other than fear and anxiety or the mess he's made. What he knows is the way S sounds — the rise and fall of his voice, the familiar notes of his need — is music to him.

He laughs, actually laughs, soft and surprised. "You did get me clothed," he says, lifting his arms to let S undress him, the shirt barely clearing his head before he's leaning in for a kiss. "Now you can get me naked." Because for all that he's complained in the past about S acting like he knows what's best, for all that J likes to be in control of things, he likes this, too, when S knows what he wants. When he tells J what he wants. When he shows him.

It's difficult not to return the gesture, hand smoothing over S's stomach as he wishes he could get his shirt off too. There's only trouble that way, though. Instead he trails his fingertips lower, lower, to hook in S's waistband again. He glances back at S again as he does, watching. He was so feverish earlier, wanted so much it consumed him; he doesn't think he really took it in as much as he would have liked, all the good quickly overwhelmed by the despair. This is different. He wants it to be different. He wants to see S and remember it all, as if he can erase images of the past and write over them with the way it feels to make S feel good again.

He tugs at S's pants, hand coming back up to his hair as he pulls him into a kiss, desire sweeping over him, too strong to resist.

It's a little crazy to think about, actually, how just minutes ago, S was trying not to let his gaze linger on J in the tub and while he dressed. Everything today has happened so fast that it could make his head spin if he let it, and later, it probably will. For now, though, he's too drunk on the present to spare it too much thought, too willingly wrapped up in J, the soft sound of his laugh — familiar and not nearly enough so for how rare it's so often felt — and the warmth of his skin under S's hands. This is infinitely better than making himself keep a distance. Better, too, than their frantic pace on the couch, which was good while it lasted but hardly gave him time to savor any of this. He does now, palms skimming over J's chest and ribs while he pulls the shirt up and off, falling easily back into a kiss when J leans in for one.

As much as he wants to be touched — wants, really, for J to fuck him senseless, though he has just enough restraint not to blurt out that — there's so much he'd like to do in turn, too. He wants to touch and taste every inch of J's body, to learn him all over again like he did when they were first together, to catalog the different sounds he makes, to take his time and drag it out until neither of them can stand it anymore, to find some way of showing J just how beautiful he is, how wanted, how loved. They have time, though. The same is true for right now, the two of them no longer needing to rush like they thought they did earlier, but there's no way he could hold out that much. It's all something to try to remember for later, now that they have a later.

All of it gets quickly overridden, anyway, when J's hand drops to the waist of his pants again, his proximity and the faint but clear memory of how good he felt earlier making S's throat go dry. He nods as best he can into the kiss, stuttering out permission when he finally draws back. "Yes," he says, and ducks his head to kiss J's neck, sucking gently over his pulse. He tastes clean instead of like ash now, and S likes it even more for that. "Keep going. Please."

The bed is right there, but it can wait. Some things are easier standing up, like undressing, and now that S has given direct permission, there's no reason to wait, except the part where his mouth on J's neck makes him short circuit a little. Has he always been this sensitive? It's been a hell of a day and far too damn long since S last had his mouth on J's throat, and maybe that's why he feels like his nerves are alight in the best possible way, skin crawling with need. Hands and mouth, it's just enough and not enough.

He swallows back a whimper, letting go of S's shirt to unfasten his pants, even though he wants to hold onto him and pull him closer, urge him to suck harder, leave a mark. It doesn't take long, with both hands free, to unfasten and unzip, pushing impatiently at fabric to get S out of his pants, and that's good enough for now. Hands setting at S's hips, he nudges and pushes until they're spun around and he can urge S back toward the bed. They must look ridiculous, half an outfit each, and he doesn't care. This time, he doesn't want to rush in; he doesn't want to overwhelm S completely so soon, palming him through his boxers instead of reaching inside yet.

It occurs to him distantly that S hasn't been here long and can't possibly have imagined this happening, which could pose a problem. "Do you have lube for later?" he asks, hopeful. "Or something, I don't know." He doesn't really care what, as long as it does the job. He's hurt S enough without trying to go in dry. It doesn't even matter yet, when he mostly just wants to sink to his knees right now, but he'd rather not have to figure this out later.

Even with a somewhat more measured, less frenzied pace than their desperation to get their hands on each other back on the couch, S can still barely think straight, overwhelmed by how much he wants and how badly he wants it and the fact that this is happening at all. They were never supposed to have this chance, after all. He didn't just think but knew with utter certainty that he and J would never be together like this again, because J was dead, a separation far more permanent than any breakup. He's alive now, though, warm and real and present everywhere, the proof of it there under S's lips, where he sucks harder until, he thinks, there will be a twin mark to the one J left on his throat earlier, some physical evidence that they're each other's.

He wants that, he realizes with just a little more clarity than he could muster earlier. Wants bruises that aren't from strangulation, wants J to mark him, claim him, to make him his in the way S knows he always has been, for the truth already imprinted on his wounded heart to be spelled out across his body for no one but the two of them to see. Wants, too, to have that indisputable confirmation that this is real, it's happened, and J really does want him, too. He could never have imagined this anyway, but there's no better way to confirm it.

A little dizzy at the thought of it, S just manages to step out of his pants and kick them aside when they fall to the ground, gasping at and immediately leaning into J's touch, so good and still not nearly enough. It feels silly to still be standing here in a button-down shirt, but there is, at least, a good reason for that. Rather than dwelling on it, he hooks his fingers in the waist of J's pants in turn to try to tug them down, figuring he might as well even that particular score, get them both closer to what they want.

Distracted as he is, he barely processes the question, groaning a little when he does, equal parts frustrated and still wanting. "Didn't think I'd have anyone here," he says, half-nonsensical but trusting that J will get his meaning. This has been the most unexpected turn of events of all, but he wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone else, either. "There's — there's probably something." He tries to think through what he's even purchased in the last few days, but the time before he found J feels distant now, and this place isn't half as familiar to him yet as the man touching him is. Still, he's sure there must be something that will work instead.

Even if J already figured as much, it's both gratifying and annoying to hear. Someday, he's sure, S would have found someone else — someone better, probably, definitely — but not so soon. Still, it's nice to know and awful, too, as much for the thought of S so alone as it is for the fact that it makes this more difficult. Thinking clearly is hard to do when he's half-hard himself, and it's been so long since this was any kind of a concern for him.

It would probably be easier to figure out if he weren't so distracted or if he knew what S already has in the apartment. It would be easier if he'd stop what he's doing and think, but he doesn't. Instead he busies himself helping S to slip his pants off, haphazardly stepping out of them. "Lotion?" he suggests, slipping his hand into S's hair, pulling him back toward his neck. "Oil?" Neither is ideal, but they'd work, surely, enough for what they have in mind, and he really doesn't want to have to dress again and stop this to go shopping. There are too many other things he wants too badly for that, tumbling through his mind until he barely knows where to start.

Instead he leaves it to S, since it's his place anyway, giving up on patience to tug down S's underwear instead, brushing his fingertips down his length. Any more than that and he's pretty sure he wouldn't get much of an answer at this point. Restraining himself is difficult, though, when there's so much he wants, aching to be touched. "Just wanna get you in bed," he sighs, a little bit petulant. It's not S's fault for not guessing J would just happen to come back to life and want to fuck him, but it does complicate things a little.

It's hard to think straight, to keep track of one thought to the next, when he's pulled in so many different directions. If he stopped to catch his breath, he could probably come up with a reasonable enough alternative, but S can't bring himself to do that when J is touching him, just barely, and when the curve of J's neck is warm and sweet under his mouth, teeth just barely grazing skin. He wants so much that it's all-consuming, more even than he remembers being the case when they were together before for the fact that they've been apart for so long. Even then, he always felt lucky — to have fallen in love with his best friend, to have that love returned, to be in J's orbit — but that's nothing compared to how he feels now, reuniting with someone who should be dead, having J want him again after all this time. It's like electricity; he's half-surprised there aren't sparks shooting off at every point of contact, every little bit he gets making him want that much more.

Although it takes a moment, J's words do cut through the haze, and then he lifts his head, smiling lopsidedly, unable to resist the temptation to lean in and kiss J again before he answers. "There's lotion," he says, relieved, of all things, not wanting to have to stop for — well, anything, really, but especially such a technicality. They're both here and both want this. They shouldn't have to be interrupted, to stop and calm themselves down, just to go to the store and then come back and pick this up again. It's not a perfect solution, but it will do for now. Anything that will let this actually happen is good enough. "In the drawer."

With his boxers off, it feels all the more ridiculous to be standing here in a shirt, but S ignores it in favor of touching J, fingers trailing over his stomach, then down into the front of his boxers, hand wrapping around him. He still wants too much at once, so much that it's difficult to tell what to do next, but it all comes back to more, and it's been far too long since he's been able to have his hands on J like this.

For a moment, J is pretty sure his brain stops functioning entirely, hips jolting when S touches him. "Fuck," he says, shaky, fingers digging into S's hip. It's not a lot, really, just a hand around his dick, but it's been a long damn time and it's S's hand, those perfect fingers he knows so well in so many ways, and if he hadn't already made up his mind some time ago to do this, he would now.

He was, a moment ago, wanting more of S's teeth on his neck, relieved to have a solution to their problem — one of them at least. Now he just wants more of anything, the answer already half-forgotten. He leans into him, crashes into him, seeking out another kiss. "Bed," he chokes out, half-laughing, nearly delirious with desire and how wound up he is. "Now, please."

An hour ago or less, he was so tired everything hurt, body and soul. Kissing S, touching him, being touched, it's like electricity pulsing through him, like fire, erratic and bright, overwhelming and absolutely everywhere. He doesn't want to break S's hold on him, but he does, pushing gently at his wrist, then wrapping his fingers around it, so he can step backwards to sit on the bed and pull S after him. "Come here." He watches him as he speaks, a little bit awestruck. Having drawn back gives him a moment just to look, to take in how absolutely gorgeous S is, to marvel at the fact that he gets to be here and have this. He's not sure he's ever believed in miracles, nor deserved one, but this must be one.

If he weren't already breathless, S thinks that look alone would be enough to make him so. It isn't the first time J has looked at him like this, or at least similarly, but too often, near the end, it seemed like J only saw him with resentment, not awe. S isn't sure it's earned, really, but it feels good all the same — feels incredible, really — to have that expression fixed on him, makes him feel strangely self-conscious despite still being half-dressed and despite how regularly J used to see him without any clothes on at all. A part of him wishes he could shed his shirt, too, but it wouldn't be worth the risk. Right now, he'd do whatever it takes both to be able to have this and to keep J looking like he does now. He's beautiful, always has been, S thinks, but never as much so as when he actually seems happy, even if that happiness is just the product of lust. Especially with all the misery and tears earlier, especially when he's at least partly the cause of this now, S will gladly take it and try his best to make it last.

"Oh, well, since you said please," he jokes, a laugh of his own catching in his throat as he, once more, follows J's lead forward. It will just mean moving again before too long, but mostly just wanting to be close, he climbs into J's lap again, knees bracketing his hips, steadier than he was on the couch for no longer trying to shed layers at the same time. Now, with his hands freed, he's better able to touch J, palm cupping his jaw as he leans into another hungry kiss, fingers sliding back into his hair again a moment later.

Just this is good, so good, J sturdy and real, both familiar and new. If S weren't already so wound up — if it hadn't been so long — he could stay here for a while and just keep kissing. It has, though, and he is, and there's so much he wants, he can still barely string coherent thoughts together. "Want you," he says, half-slurred into the kiss, like it isn't already apparent.

The weight of S in his lap feels so good, so right. He can't go back, he knows that, but right now, with S straddling him, J's eyes closed as he kisses him back hungrily, it almost feels like nothing has changed. Everything's just the way it should be, the way it was before it started to fall apart — before he fell apart. He could almost cry again, though now he's just overwhelmed by the goodness of the moment.

He slides a hand under S's shirt, skimming up his back, the other cupping his ass, as he pulls S closer. Even if it's already perfectly clear that S wants him, it's still nice to hear, the sound of his voice spurring J on. "Anything," he says, and he means it, even half drunk on desire. "Gonna make you feel so good, I promise." As much as he's trying not to think about, well, really anything else right now, he's still aware that it's the very least he can do, finding whatever way he can to bring S pleasure. That he so badly wants to is just a nice bonus.

He lets go of S's ass to reach between them instead, sliding his hand into S's boxers, fingers winding around him. While he can think of other ways to make good on his promise, this, at least, is a start, and the best he can do without moving S from his lap. He gives him a moment before he moves, stroking slowly. "Anything you want."

Between the sound of J's voice and the movement of his hand, S can't help but shudder a little, his hips canting forward and a desperate, encouraging whine in his throat. Like this, it's difficult to be sure of what, exactly, he wants, just because there's so much of it, and it all really comes down to J, just J, and whatever S can get from him. He believes it, though, when J promises to make him feel good. Maybe he shouldn't — maybe that's as counterintuitive as all the rest of this — but right now, he has no reason to doubt it, already feeling better than he has in longer than he can remember and still hungry for more. The things he does know he wants, the few specific desires that have taken hold in his head, save for the one he already gave voice to, he can't quite find the words for. It's probably stupid to be modest around someone with whom he spent a long time having regular sex and whose hand is currently wrapped around his dick, but still, it's been a long time, and some things are just difficult to articulate.

"I already feel good," he points out instead, like that isn't obvious, too. His fingers twist in J's hair, gently pulling again, a wordless attempt to seek out more. He does feel good, actually being touched by someone else for the first time in such a long time, their too-brief attempt at this on the couch earlier aside, but he could feel even better, too. And while anything is so broad, nearly impossible to narrow down for how much he just wants J, his own admission from earlier is what S keeps coming back to.

He kisses J again, deep and eager, before he tries to speak again, his voice a little rough and strained when he does. "You know what I want."

Even if he hadn't just promised him anything, J couldn't say no, not when S sounds like that. He said earlier how stupid an idea this is, but he takes it back now, in his head, at least. If it makes S feel good, if he wants it this much, then it might be the best idea J's had in a year.

It might even be the most stable he's felt in all that time, which is, admittedly probably pretty pathetic, but it's easier like this. When the world is nothing but the two of them making each other happy, when nothing else matters but this — it's easier, really, to feel like he's got some control over his life when he knows what he's doing. Even after so much time apart, some things are just engrained in him; even wanting so desperately to please, he doesn't have to get in his head so much about whether or not he's succeeding. He can tell that he is, hear it in the way S whines, feel it in how hard he is, how hungrily he kisses.

And while there are plenty of things J would like to do to him, and while there are things he wants done, and while he doesn't want to rush, he can't pretend giving J exactly what he wants doesn't sound incredible. "You want me inside you?" he asks, like it's any kind of a question, like he doesn't remember just how S sounded saying as much. He glances up at him for an answer before tilting his head to mouth at his jaw, thumb sweeping over the tip of S's dick. They could do this sweet and slow; they could take all day if they wanted. But he knows S well enough to know better right now. "You want me to fuck you?"

He'd meant, minutes ago that seem like so much longer now, to take his time, to do this right. S isn't sure that they haven't, though. At least they actually talked about it beforehand, instead of diving right into it like they did earlier; at least they know what they want and what they need to do to continue. Given everything — how long it's been, all they've both been through, how high both of their emotions have been running today — he thinks it must be pretty reasonable for them not to be able to keep their hands off each other, anyway, to still have the same desperate need from when they first started kissing back on the couch, just a little bit more tempered now, a little bit less thoughtless.

Besides, it isn't as if they'll only get to do this once. He hopes that's the case, anyway, believes that it is. While he's trying not to think too far ahead, mostly because, if he does, he knows he'll start worrying about the state J was in earlier and how resolute he seemed to be about wanting to die again, S feels a promise in this that he didn't before, a potential. He isn't just trying to grab hold of what he can, while he can. This seems instead like a start, one worth making the most of, but still just the beginning of something all the same.

He could still be wrong, but he prays that he isn't.

At least, he would if he could stop to think about it for more than a couple of seconds at a time, his breath faltering and a quiet whimper falling from his mouth at J's words and the sweep of his thumb. "Yes," he says, soft and ragged, instinctively tipping his head to the side when J's mouth drops to his jaw, his eyes falling closed for a moment. "I do." Only now does he second-guess himself, not for what he wants but for how much else they could do instead, what J might want. Steady as S might usually be, this isn't just about him, and it's been so long that this is now, again, uncharted territory of sorts. "If that's what you want, too."

J doesn't answer right away, partly because he's too busy kissing his way down S's neck, as far as he can go, and god, he wishes his shirt were off, wants to taste his shoulder, his collarbone, and still he's thankful that it isn't. It's also, partly, because, while he does want that, he doesn't want to answer blindly. There are so, so many options that it's actually a little bit of a relief to know what S is looking for so he doesn't have to make many choices himself.

"I do," he says, kissing the hollow of his throat. For a moment, it's hard not to let his mind drift, but this is okay, this is better, this is his mouth and not his hands, love and not violence. This is okay — more than, judging by the way S's breath catches, though that might also be because of the way he's still stroking him. Even so, he lifts his head again to look up, letting the sight of S soothe him. There's no fear there now, no sense of betrayal or hurt. They're fine. And there will be time later for other things, because he's here. He said he's here, he said he'd try, and he's going to, so they'll have time. Besides, he's not sure he can hold out long enough for anything else yet when just talking about fucking S leaves him feeling embarrassingly needy.

"Want that so much," he says, barely an exhale as he reaches up to pull S closer to him, brushing a quick kiss against his lips. "Want you so bad. But you're gonna have to get off me first." He doesn't really want that part, aching for friction or a touch, more, anything, but it's not like he can do this right with S still in his lap. "Get the lotion."

Distantly, somewhere in the back of his mind, S knows that he probably shouldn't feel so good like this. Being so close to, so vulnerable with, the man who almost killed him should be setting off every possible alarm bell in his head. It isn't fear, though, that makes him quietly gasp when J's mouth presses to his throat. He's a little relieved, if he's honest, about the fact of that, that he feels as safe with J as he thought he would, as he ever did. Even bringing him back here, he didn't think that J would hurt him again, but he's far more certain of that now. With everything that's happened today, J would have had every chance to turn on him if he were going to, and wouldn't have been so wrecked over the things he's done, either. S really doesn't want to think about any of that right now, but still, he's glad not to have overestimated his trust, or at least so far misplaced it.

"Okay," he says, breathless in turn, any momentary questions he'd had put to rest by J's agreement. Still, he can't quite bring himself to pull away yet, instead leaning in to kiss J again, his hips rocking forward as he does. It'll be worth it soon enough; it's just too difficult to resist the temptation to drag this out another moment longer, to stay close now that he gets to be close. Finally, though, he makes himself move, carefully, reluctantly pulling himself off J's lap and blindly reaching from beside him on the bed for the drawer of the nightstand he's hardly used. Given everything and how barely settled in he is here, it feels lucky to have anything they can use at all, however imperfect a solution; he'd bought lotion intending it to be for his hands, but this now seems like an infinitely more pressing use of it.

Bottle retrieved, he sets it next to J. Rather than chancing temptation and moving back in, then, S takes advantage of having shifted away to start getting situated on the bed, remembering just in time his earlier thought that he shouldn't lie on his back. It wouldn't be worth the risk to the fragile, wonderful peace they've finally dragged themselves into. He faces the headboard instead, hands and knees on the mattress and his heart lodged somewhere up in his throat with nerves and desire.