There is a very long list of things J doesn't like about himself, ranging from the absurdly unimportant to a lifechanging kind of terrible. Leaving S is hardly his most egregious fault in life, but right now, with S looking up at him like this, reaffirming that he was faithful even when J gave him no reason at all to be, even when there was nothing to be faithful to, it feels monumentally stupid that he ever thought doing so was a good idea. Whatever was wrong between them, whatever ridiculous fights he picked or problems he had, he should have known. He could never love anyone else like this. He wouldn't want to.

Any traces of self-doubt flicker away, though, entirely forgotten in the next instant. He can't think of anything else when S is kissing his thigh, the first drag of his tongue enough to pull a low moan from J. God, he wants, grateful that S doesn't keep him waiting much longer. It isn't quite enough, but it is, too, his mouth and fingers blissfully familiar. J's hands hang in the air a moment, not quite sure where to go. Eventually he steadies one at S's shoulder, curling lightly in his shirt, the other resting against the side of his head, toying absently with his hair. He could say he's glad, that he doesn't want anyone else to have this, to have S, but the words don't quite make it out of his mouth, and anyway, he's not sure how to put it without sounding like a complete asshole. He has no right to be possessive about what S did or didn't do after he left him, he knows that. He is, all the same.

"Always you," he says instead, voice still rough from earlier, but unabashedly affectionate. "Always."