beklemmt | (no subject)

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[From here.]

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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It would probably be absurd to say what immediately pops into J's mind, the words on the tip of his tongue anyway. He only just bites it back. When he's the one who chose to stay away for so long, when he knows he's the reason there was distance between them to begin with and all of this should have been impossible, it doesn't feel fair, but he can't stop thinking You feel like home.

But he does. Absurd, too, to think that at all in this position, S on all fours and half-clothed still, but it's true. The way he sounds, the way he feels — the warmth of his skin, the new-old sensation of being inside him, joined so intimately with someone he loves so much — it feels like coming home again after a long, long time. Things have changed so fucking much, more than he ever could have imagined, but some things — the most important parts — are as they always were.

"Good," he says instead, both praise and reassurance. Keep going isn't much in the way of direction, but it's enough; it tells J he's on the right track, at least, and that he can do more, which is what he wants anyway. They both meant it, he thinks, when they said anything. As long as it's them, they'll take what they can get. Right now, that means more. Hands slipping up to grasp S's waist and keep them both steady, J rocks his hips a little harder. Just a little faster, too, but he's more focused on getting deeper for now, trying to find the angle that makes S feel best. "Just want you to feel good," he says, a little slurred, "make you happy." Even distracted from his own words by the way S feels, he suspects he knows what S will say, but he's pretty sure he stopped making him happy a long, long time ago. There's a lot of lost time to make up for now, and sex won't be enough, but it's a start. With his grip at S's waist, he pulls S's hips back into him just as he thrusts his own forward, trying to get deeper still, a broken little moan spilling out of him.

Even having asked for this, however obliquely, S still gasps, surprised, when J's thrusts get harder, that breath leaving him on a ragged moan, louder than a moment before. However irrational it may be, he feels like he couldn't possibly get enough, and it just makes him want more, as much as he can have, as much as J will give him. It still feels desperate, sort of pathetic, to think so after so much time spent reaching out and being turned away. The way J sounds, though, and the way J touches him, make S think that it might not be just him anymore, J thrusting deep inside him and his fingers gripping his waist like he might be able to keep him that way. Absently, he wonders if it will be hard enough to bruise; he hopes that it is, wants marks left behind, proof that this was real, that it happened, that J wanted him again. Even if this was all J wanted, S thinks he could manage to content himself with that. At least it would be better than being shut out again. At least it would keep J sounding like he does now, such a far cry from the way things were earlier today or the last time they saw each other before this.

He doesn't really think that's the case, though, not with everything J has actually said. Some of it may have just spilled out in the heat of the moment, but it seems more like the way they were before than anything strictly physical, the warmth of those words something he'd want to hold onto if he had remotely that kind of mental capacity. Instead, he nods, or tries to, the movement too unsteady to really be considered such, swallowing hard as he attempts to speak again. "I do," he says, "I am," and he's not sure if it makes a single bit of sense, but he means it all the same. He feels better than he has in longer than he can remember; he's happier than he has been, too, as odd a word as happy is to describe being fucked like this by someone who was until a few hours ago his very dead ex and still wanting more. No one has ever made him as happy as J does. Probably no one has ever made him as unhappy, either, but that was another time, relevant now only for the fact that they've made it here from there.

Still half-nonsensical, his voice still strained, he adds without thinking, "I want that too." He's never been half as good at making J happy as he's wanted to be, tried to be, but that doesn't mean he'll stop trying yet.

I am, he says, and it feels a little like something untangling in J's chest. Not you do, which he'd expected, which he wouldn't really be able to believe — I am. That he believes, that he can accept as true. Here, now, in this moment, he makes S happy. Everything inside him is all messy and confused still; he spent so long trying to make himself believe he didn't want this anymore, any of it, that it feels like his whole world keeps shifting again and again — being alive, being loved, feeling how badly he still wants all of it. It would overwhelm him entirely if he didn't have something to focus on to pull him through. It makes sense that would be S. He's so often been J's anchor, when J has felt steady enough to allow it. He is again now, J gripping his hips perhaps harder than he means to in his desperation, holding on for surprisingly dear life.

He could say he knows, because he does, that S wants to make him happy. Sometimes that was the very problem. And it's hard to say that he is happy, because he kind of is and he kind of isn't. Happiness is complicated. Today is complicated. He doesn't know — wouldn't know, even if he weren't swept away in the heady haze of sinking into S again and again — how to say that it's enough for him. Right now, at least, it's enough that S cares enough to want that still.

"I love you," he says instead, a ragged gasp, hips snapping forward. It occurs to him briefly that they haven't actually decided to get back together; he's just kind of been assuming, which is crazy, given that he also assumed S would want nothing to do with him. The notion that it might be too much to keep saying he loves S passes quickly, though. It isn't like S hasn't said it, too, and he wants to say it. "You do, you do, fuck, feel so good." He nudges at the inside of S's thigh, encouraging him to spread his legs wider so J can shift his angle, a whine in his throat before he even notices it enough to hold it back. "Always so good for me, take me so well."

Just hearing that pulls another broken moan from S, one that comes out almost as a sob, though it's all pleasure and longing. They've said so several times today; J told him as much just minutes ago, though everything feels hazy now, anything outside of this difficult to think too much about. Still, it hits differently, somehow, hearing J tell him he loves him while also thrusting so hard into him, holding on so tightly. Maybe it's that, just a moment ago, he was considering the possibility that this might be all there is, or maybe it's how long it's been since he was able to feel J like this, or how emotional today has been, or any combination of things. Now doesn't seem like the time to examine it; S feels too good for that, and it's too hard to focus on anything that isn't the sound of J's voice or how he feels, how deep his thrusts are, how his fingers dig into S's hips, everything pure, electric sensation.

"I love you," he echoes, just barely managing to choke the sentence out. He can't not say it back, though, not even with as difficult as it is to catch his breath or string words together or think clearly at all. At J's prompting, he shifts, parting his legs further, though it isn't easy to do with as shaky as he feels, his arms barely supporting his weight anymore, fingers clutching uselessly at the sheet underneath his hands. He's desperate and aching and it's incredible, just what he wanted, or at least getting close to it, a whine of his own leaving him unbidden at the last thing J says. It gets under his skin more than he would have expected it to, though he's also so far gone, so lost in this, that probably anything would. Still, he likes hearing it, breath shuddering a little.

Once he's sure that he's still steady, though he thinks J's hands are probably doing more to accomplish that than his own limbs are, he risks a brief, momentary glance over his shoulder before he gasps out, "More, please, please."

Edited 2020-12-29 10:22 (UTC)

Pretty probably shouldn't be the word that comes to mind right now. Looking down at S, though, it's all J can think. He's just barely peeking up over his shoulder, cheeks red, eyes bright and dark all at once, hair a mess, shirt rucked halfway up his back; he's shaking, a little, and making these beautiful noises, a fucked out mess asking for more, and it's the best thing J's seen in years, the best he's felt in longer than he can put a name to. S is so pretty like this — always lovely, always, but seeing him like this just gets under J's skin, heightens the already incredible pleasure he feels. He did this. No matter how much else he's fucked up, at least he can get this much right for S. More than that, S trusts him enough to let him still, wants it as badly as J does. Loves him. He can barely get the words out, but he still does, and it makes J wish he could lean down and kiss him.

"More?" he echoes, checking in, though it's pretty clear what S wants in spite of his shakiness. Already he feels so good around J, pulling him in, every thrust feeling like sparks crawling along his skin; there's a hot tension burning down his spine, and he's torn between wanting to ignore the request so he can draw this out longer and chasing that. In the end, though, it's really what S wants that matters, though it conveniently aligns with what J wants too. "Since you said please." It doesn't come out nearly as playful or confident as he intends it to be, his own voice ragged with desire, words punctuated with a sharp moan. Still, he means it. He wouldn't say no to S, least of all like this, and he's never pretended he doesn't like it when S says please like that, half-broken.

So he gives him what he wants.

He's trembling a little himself, trying hard to keep both of them vaguely upright, running on pure adrenaline and desire. It's enough to keep him going, though, that and S's voice and his little whimpers and moans, as he picks up the pace, fucking him harder, faster. "So good, doing so good. I've got you, fuck, fuck," he gasps, and he's babbling a little, and he really doesn't care. It feels too good, utterly exhilarating; he can't be bothered to care about anything that isn't this, how good he feels and how good he can make S feel.

It's perfect.

It isn't, really, because nothing is. His boyfriend — well, probable boyfriend, he thinks J is his boyfriend again — the man with whom he's so desperately in love is a fucking serial killer, and not an hour ago, S was trying to convince him not to kill himself a second time. He has his shirt on because J can't stand the sight of the scars he put there, and S got on his hands and knees in the first place to try to avoid one or both of them having an adverse reaction to being in a position too similar to the one they were in when J was attempting to murder him. All of those things are still true. None of them will go away just because the two of them are having good — no, okay, frankly fucking spectacular — sex. Right now, though, it doesn't have to matter, not any of it, and S thinks a little clumsily, a little deliriously, that if they can make this work, after everything, then they've got to stand a good chance at dealing with all the rest of it, too. He already lost J twice, the first time when he left, the second when he died, one more thing that S isn't going to think about much right now. No matter what it takes, he doesn't want to lose J again.

This is the best he's felt since they were together, sometime before the end, and only partly for how easily J gives him what he's asking for. Turning his head into his shoulder is only slightly effective for muffling the way he cries out, a desperate, uninhibited moan; he thinks it's just as well when J probably wants to hear him, and with J giving him just what he wants so well, he ought to do the same in turn, make sure J knows just how good he feels. The sex itself is good, and being wanted again like this at all is possibly even better, and his whole body aches with the effort to keep himself upright and the force of J's thrusts, and it's incredible, so present and real and all-consuming. If he still had any doubts about this being real, he wouldn't now. J could vanish again tomorrow, go up in smoke, and S would still know that he really got to have this. At this rate, he'll probably still be able to feel it then anyway.

"Fuck, yes, yes, that's —" he says, but he can't quite manage to finish the sentence, his head too empty to find a word that works well enough. He thinks, or at least hopes, that it will be encouraging enough anyway, some half-dazed way of making sure that J knows that this is exactly what he wants, even as he can tell his elbows are on the verge of buckling, his body trembling more than before. Torn between wanting to make this last as long as he possibly can and touching himself to probably too quickly push himself over the edge, he stays put for the moment, attempting to nod again in a belated assent. "Don't stop."

Edited 2020-12-29 11:26 (UTC)

When this is done, J is pretty sure, he's just going to collapse next to S. They're probably both going to collapse, actually; he's not sure how much longer S can stay even somewhat upright. Truthfully, even that's absurdly arousing. At this point nearly everything is, yes, but there's definite appeal in knowing he's almost literally fucking S into the sheets, until he can't complete a sentence longer than two words.

Not that he's all that much better off on that front. S moans loud enough J thinks they might get complaints from his neighbors, and it just sets him off in turn — a little quieter, but only because the whimpers and groans that go with every thrust are so breathy at this point. He kind of wants that, he realizes, wants S's neighbors to hear, just enough for other people to know S is his, which is absolutely absurd since no one even knows he's here, and he knows he's a little delirious now, but he wants it.

"I won't," he gasps, though the pace he's set is punishing enough he knows he won't have much longer in him. It doesn't matter, he'll keep going if that's what S wants from him. He'll figure it out. They'll figure this out, whatever this is. He's come home, finally, to stay. He doesn't know for how long and home is somewhere entirely unfamiliar, but it doesn't matter, because he's here and S wants him to be. That's the only thing that matters now.

He's breathing hard and closer than he'd like, and all he can make himself do at first is stammer out, "Love you." He doesn't want to stop, S told him not to, and he doesn't want to come yet and leave S unsatisfied, and thinking of a solution to that is hard when he's having trouble thinking clearly at all. "But I — getting close," he says, sounding a little guilty for it. He's not sure how he can help it when S feels so fucking good and he's been on his own for so long, but that doesn't make it any less disappointing. Uncertain if he'll be able to manage it for long, he runs his hand along S's stomach and then down, reaching blindly to wrap his fingers around his dick. His strokes are clumsy, he's pretty sure, but relatively in rhythm with his hips, and he hopes, at least, that it will be enough.

Clumsy or not, it's still better than S could do for himself right now when moving one arm would probably just result in him collapsing on the bed too soon. It's still good, too; he's so desperate, so oversensitive, that anything would be right about now, his hips jerking just slightly forward at that first contact. There's no way he'll be able to last much longer like this. He's halfway disappointed for the fact of that, wanting to feel this good for as long as he can, and halfway convinced that the rest of his body wouldn't be able to hold out for very long anyway. Everything hurts, but it's a good hurt, the ache of exhaustion and exertion and intense arousal, of being so stunningly wanted. After all this time, there likely wasn't any way they could drag this out for too long anyway. If that's the case, then, he thinks, at least they've made the absolute most of it, and he still means to try to hold out just as long as he can, or at least as long as J can.

Even half-wishing this could last a little longer, it's sort of gratifying, anyway, hearing J say that he's close. He did that. Granted, he may not have had to do much, but even so, he's the one who's here now, whom J's been fucking like this, and it feels just about as good as anything else does to know he still has that kind of effect on him after all this time. Each inhale a gasp, another, quieter moan escaping through his teeth, he bobs his head in strained acknowledgment. "I know," he says, somewhat nonsensically. He does, but he knows because J just told him. That's less important, though, than what he adds next. "Me too."

It's meant to be, though not quite permission, exactly, a way of telling J that it's okay, that he doesn't mind, that he's close, too, all the more so for J's hand stroking his dick. Everything is just too much in the best way possible, his senses all heightened, and as good, as incredible as it feels, it isn't something that could ever have been sustainable for very long. Words are too hard to come by, though. It's easier just to keep making desperate, involuntary sounds and to trust that J knows his body as well as he ever did.

There's something bizarrely comforting about this — a lot of things, actually. S says me too, and it's a relief, both because J doesn't have to feel bad about not being able to last as long as he wants and because he thought that was the case. Even if a lot of the details of the past have gone hazy with time and distance, a lot of them stay sharp, vivid, and it's nice to know he can still recognize the signs, the little ways S's body signals how close he is. He still knows him, knows how to read him and how to make him feel good. Whatever has changed about them — about him — as people, some things don't change.

Even the sounds in the room are soothing in their own weird way. The rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the bed shifting, the little noises S makes, they'd be the same in any room in any world. Against the odds, they're still them.

He wants to hold out longer, at least until he can get S off first, but that feels increasingly unlikely. He can't say he's entirely sorry about that when he feels so goddamn good, pleasure seeping through him, and he's just this side of feeling even better, but he has a distant sense that he meant for this to be about S. Still it won't be the first time something like this has happened, and he hopes it won't be the last, if only because that would mean more of this in their future. And it's good, everything about this, down to the way he's sweating and exhausted and electrically aware of every nerve in his body and every place their bodies meet and connect. It's good just to feel so alive.

It isn't much longer before he's choking out, "Gonna come, fuck," thrusting a few more times before he does, letting out a low moan, vision going blinding white. He lets go of S's dick, grasping at his thigh instead, as he trembles through it, heat and light and good pulsing through him. Even almost entirely incoherent, he's aware of not wanting to keep holding on in case his grip tightens too much. Bruises on S's thighs are vastly preferable to risking harming him. Panting, he leans forward, propping himself up with one hand on the bed, forehead pressing into S's back. "Fuck."

It doesn't take much more than that. Far gone as he is, there's no way it could have. S is sort of relieved for that, in a distant, abstract way, inasmuch as he's capable of coherent thought at all, not wanting J to have to focus on getting him off after getting off himself. But already so close, those last few thrusts are all it takes to push him over the edge, too, S groaning, nearly crying out, as he comes, teeth pressing so hard to his lower lip that they nearly break skin, his head spinning and chest heaving, body shaking under J's. It already was anyway, but it's unmistakable now, the sudden bright, taut rush of it brilliant but only lasting so long before his limbs remember how tired they are. He's a mess, or at least his shirt and the sheet are, but his arms finally give out, and he doesn't try to stop it, half-slumping onto the bed, his forearms and face against the mattress. Only the warm weight of J leaning against him keeps him from collapsing entirely, and that — the fingers clutching his thigh so hard he thinks that might bruise too, the way he can just barely feel J's breath against his skin through the fabric of his shirt — is too good for him to want to pull away from.

They'll have to move soon anyway; there's no way they can stay tangled up like this for much longer. He's still trembling, though, and gasping for air, and short of S actually pushing him away, which he really doesn't want to do, then he thinks J is probably the one who'll have to move first anyway. S stays put instead, trying and mostly failing to catch his breath, his eyes heavy-lidded. He doesn't know what happens next. He might be worried about that if he were capable of that much coherent thought yet, but he isn't, still feeling too good for that, shaky and exhausted and warm. Loved, too. That might be the best part of all, the one that he was convinced he would never have again.

"Fuck," he echoes belatedly, his voice sounding a little distant to his own ears, like he hasn't quite settled back into his body yet. He told J before that he'd forgotten how good this felt, but when he said that, he hadn't even yet realized he would feel this good. "That was — fuck."

It takes more effort than J would like to straighten up, but he doesn't want to crumple on top of S entirely. "Yeah." He doesn't know how to articulate it any further than what S has already said, and he's still trying to catch his breath. He barely has it in him to be relieved S came, too, the exhaustion of the last day catching up with him all at once. He would have figured something out if he had to. It's not like he hasn't had to before. It's better not to need to when he's not sure how much energy he has left after that.

Pulling out carefully, he rubs at S's thigh before he slips higher up the bed, sighing as he lets himself fall onto the bed next to him. Tired though he is, he reaches over, hand coming to rest on S's back. He just wants something, however small, a little physical connection as he slowly comes down. He'd be tempted to close his eyes, but he doesn't want to fall asleep yet, not least when he could be looking at S instead. He should probably apologize for holding onto him so tightly; past experience suggests he left some bruises. He's not sorry, though. It's not like anyone else is going to be looking at S's legs closely, and it's kind of nice to be able to mark him, both possessive and hoping to write over the past a little, leaving nicer bruises.

"Yeah," he murmurs again. "Fuck." He might be a tiny bit more coherent mentally, but that doesn't yet extend to speaking aloud. What he really wants is to pull S closer, drag him into his arms, but he settles for curling his fingers in S's shirt, tugging gently. "Not too rough?" He's pretty sure of the answer to that one, too. Given how hard S came, his body, at least, definitely approved.

Thinking of anything right now as sweet seems completely incongruous with what they've just been doing, but it occurs to S as such all the same. Disappointed as he instinctively is when J pulls away — he can't quite help the faint, exhausted little whimper that escapes him — he's so gentle now in contrast to a few moments before, the way he pulls on S's shirt strangely endearing. What S really wants to do is get up and change, but he doesn't have that kind of energy yet, and it's hard to resist coming closer after that. Moving at all is a little difficult, actually, but carefully, he manages to shift up and over on the bed, getting his legs out from under him so he can relax, slumped and boneless, at J's side. He wants to move closer still, but he wants to look, too, taking in the sight of J lying there, naked and beautiful and, he thinks, his. Earlier, he felt like he had to try not to look; after this, though, he's pretty sure he gets to.

Still struggling to catch his breath as he settles, he gives a slight shake of his head before he even tries to speak again. "Not too rough," he answers when he does, his voice hoarse but soft. "I liked that." Even if he were better able to breathe, or think clearly, he doesn't know that he'd be able to explain it, how he wanted that, how he savors it now, the ache in his hips and thigh where he's bound to have bruises later, the exhaustion coursing through all of him, how he can still feel all of it even now that they're both coming down. He missed it, feeling so wanted. He missed J, and he's said that today more times than he can count, but his heart is still full to bursting with it, maybe especially now, in this pleasant, post-sex haze.

With all the energy he can summon, he shifts closer, leaning in so he can gently kiss J. "I love you."

The longer they spend together today, the more J realizes how much he missed it. Not all of it maybe — he had his reasons for leaving — but so much more than he allowed himself to think about. This is one of those things. Thinking about the sex was one thing; having never had any other partner, it made sense he'd remember S when he was alone. He could allow that, and only feel a little bit pathetic for it after. This, though, this part is just as good, maybe better, and he missed it so badly. It just feels good to be next to each other like this, relaxed and sated, a quiet intimacy lingering. The whole world goes soft and hazy and warm, and, for just a little while, there's no pressure to be anything, anyone, anywhere other than as he is now.

In a little while, they'll have to get cleaned up and remake the bed, but he's in no hurry. It'll take them a little time to regain their energy anyway. At this point, he's not even sure he will any time soon. He can barely remember the last time he got more than a couple hours of sleep at a time and, with his body finally letting down its guard, he's feeling it. That doesn't matter much, though, not when S is moving closer, when S is kissing him. His hand moves instinctively down to rest at S's waist, softer now, as he presses into the kiss, gentle, so gentle. Sometimes he can be a little rough, but it's mostly because he knows that sometimes that's what S wants. They both get off on that, feeling so entirely wrapped up in each other, knowing they belong to each other, something he wants more now than he has in a long time.

Afterward, though, he just wants to be tender with him. They're the same thing, really, two ways of showing S he loves him. He tugs S a little bit closer still, leaning their foreheads together. "I love you," he echoes, and there's so much he should say now, but he's too out of it to know where to begin. He can't begin to explain himself, all the things he's done the last year or two, and he can't find the words to tell S how much better he feels now than he is in so long, how, for the first time in a long, long time, he feels like he's home. He lost that for a little while, even before he left. He's not sure it makes sense to have found it again now, when he shouldn't get to have peace at all, but here it is. It's S, it's always been him, and right now J doesn't have the strength even to be appalled that it took nearly killing him to admit that again. They're here. For a little bit longer, that's enough.

With another soft kiss, he draws back just enough to get a better look at S, just taking him in, his arm slipping back to drape over S. "So much," he says, a quiet exhale, drowsy though he's trying to fight it. Still he smiles, small and fond. "Are we..." With as many times as they've exchanged words of love today, they probably are back together. For that matter, S having agreed to leave him if he feels threatened, in a strange way, feels like a tacit agreement that they are. Still, he can't assume. He can't not give S an out. Besides, he wants to hear it anyway. Brushing another kiss against S's lips, he fumbles for how to finish his question. "We don't have to be if you're not... comfortable. With that." S is the one who's been trying to pick things back up again, so J knows it probably sounds dumb for him to suggest he's the one who's ready and S isn't. Given what he tried to do, though, it would make perfect sense if S didn't want to make this a thing yet.

Now that he's a little more capable of thinking clearly, S knows that this shouldn't feel as good as it does, that he shouldn't be as comfortable as he is. As much as this feels like before, better, even, for how long they've been apart, a lot has changed since then, and logically speaking, he should have plenty of reasons not to want to be where he is. This isn't even the first time today he's thought so, but it doesn't make any more difference now than it did the first however many times. He still isn't really sure what that means or what it says about him, but here with J is the only place he wants to be, and not just because he still doesn't have the physical capacity to get up and move. Instead, he stays put, gently leaning into it when J kisses him again, trying to memorize the way he feels and how sweet he sounds, just as incredible in its own right as a few minutes ago. There are still other things he should do, too — both of them could stand to get cleaned up — but it can wait just a little while longer, at least until he has a little more energy again. In the meantime, this is nice enough not to want to put an end to it yet all on its own.

He's considering leaning in for another kiss, considering just curling up against J's side, when J asks that fragmented question, one it takes S a moment longer to parse than it probably should. Part of it is that he still isn't entirely coherent yet, everything still just a little hazy; part of it is just that, when it does click, he hardly sees how it's a question at all, the answer one that he thinks should be obvious. He spent months wanting nothing more than to get back together, to have J decide to come home, trying probably pathetically at every chance he got to make that happen. So much has changed since then, but even with the heightened emotions they've both had today and the rush of having J here and alive again, S doesn't really think that there would ever have been a version of this where he went to bed with J without wanting to get back together with him. Maybe they should have clarified that first, and he knows it's nice that J asked rather than assuming, but he still feels like it ought to have been obvious. Before, they were friends, and then those feelings grew into something else, and then the sex followed. Despite all that's changed, that still feels like the order of things now: the affection, and then the love, and then the sex. He didn't bring J here expecting to kiss him, and he didn't kiss him expecting to sleep with him. If all he'd done was give his best friend a safe place to stay, he would have been content with that. He would still have wanted more, too, but it would have been worth it to have J back in any capacity at all.

S thinks he should probably say that, but he can't figure out where to start, how to put it into words. Instead, he shifts his weight and lifts one hand so he can cup J's jaw, kissing him again like he'd been wanting to do in the first place. "I am," he says, soft but serious, his thumb gently stroking J's cheek, "if you are." Really, that barely touches on the truth of it, that he wants that so badly despite how little sense it makes for him to do so, and yet he wouldn't mind if J didn't, as long as it didn't mean losing him entirely again. If all he wanted was friendship, if all he wanted was sex, S would give him that.

There is definitely something deeply wrong with him. Right now, he can't bring himself to care.

Edited 2020-12-30 08:25 (UTC)

He's too tired, too content, to pretend he's not relieved to hear it, expression softening as he nods ever so slightly. He doesn't want S to stop touching him, his hand so soft and warm against J's cheek, but he can't answer in words yet. There's absolutely no reason whatsoever S should give him another chance, no matter how much they love each other, and still he mostly expects that he will, but it's no less of a relief for being what he expects. It's not what he deserves, it's not the smart thing for S to do, and that was enough to worry him.

And maybe he should say no after all, that he isn't ready to jump back in. So much has changed, though, and he doesn't want to wait to put himself back together first when he hasn't felt this steady or satisfied in forever. There will be things to fix and discuss and work through, but he's changed. Most of it hasn't been for the better, but he's trying to make something of his shifting priorities. If he can do better by S, it won't fix everything else, but at least it's something, a chance to do right by the person he loves most. And it's selfish, he knows that. He can frame it however he likes, but in the end, he knows, he just doesn't want to be alone or to deny himself the pleasure of being loved by someone he loves so much.

"I am," he murmurs. He wants to lean in and kiss S again, but he doesn't, not yet. This is serious. He needs S to know he understands that. Even if he can't promise yet to stay alive, he can't come back with one foot out the door either. He can't just cut and run again. Last time, it nearly killed both of them.

Well, one of them. Definitely killed him. Contributed to it, at least. Even he's not quite stupid and reckless enough to bring that up right now, though.

"I want this," he says instead. His gaze does drop then, self-conscious but wistfully earnest. "I just wanna come home." He doesn't care where they are or what this place is. He doesn't care that this apartment is completely unfamiliar and there's no earthly explanation for how he's even alive. This is home, and he's been away far too long.

Relieved at first, happy, even, S is then struck speechless by the last thing J says. His expression softens, his hand stays on J's cheek, but he can't, for a moment, find anything to say. For months, that was all he wanted, for J to come home, holding onto the thinnest hope that one day he might. Then J was gone, and S's own home might as well have burned up in the fire too. He's survived since then, but it's been a hollow existence. The studio they once shared already felt too empty after J moved out, and once he could never come back, it was even worse, space S knew he could never fill, memories he couldn't shake. J was everywhere and nowhere all at once, and maybe it's melodramatic, just the product of youth or being so stupidly fucking in love, but S is certain that a part of him would always have been missing. Here, too, it's been better but worse, a place that at least wasn't full of reminders of J but that was all the more lacking because of it, a chance to put all of that behind him that he didn't want to have to take. He's lived here, he would have continued to do so, but it would never have been home. Nothing ever could have.

And he could point out that J is the one who left, that he could have come home anytime he wanted, that S was the one trying to get him to do so in the first place, but he doesn't. That's all past them now. S knows that it won't be as easy as just putting it behind them, that so much else won't be, too. He's never been as insecure as J has, and he's pretty sure that's often been just one more reason for J to resent him, but having been left before, pushed away for so long, it's admittedly a little difficult to come to terms with the idea of being wanted again now. He wants that, though. None of this should even be possible, and having that chance, he thinks it's worth whatever they'll have to deal with to keep it.

"You can," he says, quieter than before. There's something tremulous in his voice, too, a little broken, but he means it utterly. He just can't help if it's a little heartbreaking to hear, to think about J being alone for so long, too. "You are." They're in a mostly empty apartment in what might as well be the middle of nowhere, but he means that, too. For him, at least, it feels for the first time like it could be home now, and he knows that's only because J is here with him.

Brushing a soft, tender kiss to the corner of J's mouth, he nods just slightly when he draws back. "I want it, too."

J is tired enough that his hand shakes when he lifts it to cover S's. Maybe that's why he's letting himself say these things, achingly vulnerable and letting himself be. Or maybe it just doesn't matter anymore at the same time that it matters so much. There have been too many lies and half-truths, too much trying to push away the things he wants and desperately clawing after everything else in the wrong way. S knows everything. Lying would be pointless, but honesty is another way of swearing that he trusts him, though S is hardly the untrustworthy one here.

It hurts a little, hearing the slight shake in S's voice. Most things do these days. But he's still so sweet, still letting J in, and that helps to ease the ache of it. It's bittersweet, knowing he's the reason for all of this, but it's so good, so overwhelmingly good to hear that he's home. For a moment, it almost upends him, his heart and throat tight. He doesn't start crying again, though, which has to be a decent start. It shouldn't be possible, he realizes. That's the thing his brain is tripping across, the thing that makes this painful even as it's the most comforted he's felt before today. It isn't that he doesn't deserve this. It isn't that it's unfair or he worries S is being naïve, letting him back in like this, or how being loved in spite of himself is almost too much for him to handle. It's that it just shouldn't be possible. He's dead, he died, he killed himself. He's only halfway grasped that, which is surreal when he's also vaguely aware of that fact, that he hasn't entirely wrapped his mind around what he's done, but it hits him a little now. If it weren't for this place, whatever this is, he would never have gotten to go home ever again.

"I am," he whispers, an echo, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he lets that roll over him. He can't tell anymore how he feels, somehow utterly devastated and blissfully happy all at the same time. The only thing he's really sure of is that this is what he wants. He wants S. He's the only thing that makes sense in any world. On impulse, he tips his head forward to kiss S again, taking his time, drinking him in. He wants to apologize again — there's so damn much he's sorry for — but if he starts again, he'll never stop. For now, he bites it back, lifting his hand from where it covers S's to comb through S's hair instead, gently pulling him closer.

There's so much he could say if he let himself. Really, there's so much he probably should say, but S decides instantaneously that now isn't the time. They're both too tired for that; today has been so much, and still, in the lingering haze following some seriously intense sex, one or both of them could probably too easily tip over into being that emotional again now. He feels it a little himself, a tightness in his chest that isn't from his earlier shortness of breath, and he thinks he sees it in J's expression, too, admittedly relieved when it doesn't seem to go any further. Already they've spent so much time crying today, and chances are, there will be more of that to come, but he doesn't want J to have to fall apart again so soon. He would probably follow in short order, and they'd be, though still not back where they started — so much better off than that — in a place that they just barely pulled themselves out of a little while ago. Just for a little while longer, he wants to keep this and let everything else ahead of them wait.

Falling into it is easy, then, when J kisses him again, pulls him closer. S goes willingly, soft but sure, his eyes half-shut and his hand still gentle against J's cheek. Deep down, he knows that kissing won't solve anything. It won't change what brought them here or how rocky the path ahead of them is likely to be; it won't erase either of their scars or the worst parts of their shared past. But, God, he's been alone and unhappy for so long, swallowed up by grief, and he can't help wanting to grab onto this reprieve from it, to hold J and kiss him like he had every reason to think he would never be able to again, to make sure J knows how much he's loved, how much S means it, even now. There were times before when S wasn't sure that J actually believed him — their last conversation flits lightning-quick through his head, there and then gone again — but he intends to leave no room for doubt now. He can't take back any of what J has done, but S can love him anyway.

And he does, as awful and inexplicable as he wonders if that might be. He loves J so much that it hurts, so much that it makes his heart feel like it might split open again, and even if he could, he wouldn't rid himself of that. Maybe that was an easier thing to carry on his conscience when he didn't have to grapple with what it would mean to actively be with someone who's done the things J has done, but he doesn't care. To him, J has always been worth it. Somehow, that might be even truer now than it was before.

As soon as S kisses him back, J starts to relax again. It helps, having him here to keep J grounded, to pull him away from his thoughts. They may not be gone, but if he can let himself be steadied a little, the worst of them might fade and the rest will be easier to handle. It's a relief, too. As much as he enjoyed the sex they just had, he missed being able to kiss S during, and it's nice to get to make up for that a little.

Maybe later he can say all those other things. He can tell S how fucking sorry he is that he stayed away so long, and he can try to explain why, hopefully more calmly than when he's tried to in the past. He can make all the apologies that keep flitting through his head. He can tell S how lost he still is, how he doesn't know which way he can go now, how he's scared to make music again and scared to live without it.

Later. Not now. Not when S feels so right pressed against him and he knows how easily he could crumble if he let himself think too much. If he were alone, he wouldn't be able to hold it all at bay, but S gives him somewhere else to focus, at least, enough to keep himself somewhat together. If he stays alive for very long at all, he knows, it will be because of S. For him.

It helps, too, admittedly, that he's tired enough to be easily distracted. With the mess they've made of themselves, he doesn't want to let himself fall asleep, but for once it helps to be hazy and unfocused. "Love you so much," he mumbles, barely pulling back. "I don't know why you put up with me." As much as he means that, it's been true for a long time. It's just amplified now, yet somehow softened, too. He really doesn't understand it in the least. Love, yes, but how S can still love him, knowing what he does, he doesn't get. Still, the fact that he does is everything; it's also the only reason he sounds a little awestruck instead of wholly self-deprecating. S could do better. There's no argument to be had there. He chooses not to. He chooses J. "Glad you do though."

Even if he tried, S doubts he would be able to explain it. He's always loved J, always wanted to be with J, he thinks, even before he recognized that feeling for what it was, still just inexorably drawn to him. Things were so different then, though. They were different even after that, when the two of them were together and J's moods started getting darker, with S usually helpless to do anything about it. J hadn't killed anyone then, or tried to kill him. That should be insurmountable — a relationship dealbreaker if ever there was one, he thinks just a little hysterically. For S, though, knowing that means knowing the rest of it, too, how it happened and why. It doesn't change the facts, but it makes him feel a little better about the fact that he can't look at J and see only a killer, or the man who would have killed him. The things J has said so far today do, too. With as wrecked as he's been, as sorry, as ready to kill himself a second time to get away from it — as painful as it is for S to see or even consider, it makes it easier for him to be here, too, knowing that J isn't only the things he did in those last months, when he was alone and vulnerable and being manipulated by someone who was only trying to use him.

Sooner or later, they're going to have to talk more about it. Even if he hadn't kept J's journal here with him, it would be inevitable. Just for right now, though, at least until J is a little steadier, S thinks it can wait. It isn't as if it changes anything on his end, and he doesn't want to risk sending J back into the fraught mindset he was in not so very long ago at all. He's been alone for such a long time; they both have. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it makes him sick or complicit or both, maybe he's just inviting trouble, but S doesn't really believe that. Torturing themselves now won't change any of the facts, either, and he doesn't want to risk going down the same road as earlier. With J here, impossibly alive, S can't help it if he wants to make sure it stays that way.

"I'm glad I get to," he says, even just that feeling a little like it might be veering close to things they aren't talking about. He kisses J again, though, brief this time but still affectionate, and hopes it won't be too close. "I love you." It's not really an explanation, and it's not really that simple, and yet, it kind of is, too. "I think I've always loved you."

Me too, J thinks, and it nearly sets him off again. It's not that he regrets killing himself. It was the only way to end things or to even try and begin to balance things out. He had to. And even if that weren't the case, he doesn't think he could have borne it much longer, living with all that guilt. None of that has changed. But S is here now, and that makes more of a difference than J would have guessed. It makes him grateful, in spite of himself and all his best intentions, to be alive again. He doesn't know to explain why that hurts.

Maybe it's as simple as that just being how it is. Everything that drove him to end his life is still there, except for the risk of being caught and sent to jail or executed. To have something to hold onto, something keeping him going in the face of all of that pain, is remarkable, but it means living with things he thought he couldn't live with.

He said he'd try. He promised to try. With S saying such sweet things, he knows he has to follow through.

It takes effort to push through the urge to let these things pull him under again. He takes a moment, takes a deep breath, letting himself focus on those words, trying to slow his heart. "I know," he murmurs, though when he glances up enough to meet S's eyes, he's managed a small smile, at least — small, but warm. "I think I always loved you, too. It was just... always you."

He knows S credits him for the fact he started writing music, but J's not sure he would have ever written anything halfway decent himself if he hadn't been writing about S. "From the moment we met," he continues, fingers stroking slowly through S's hair. "I don't think there could've been anyone else."

On some level, S thinks he must have known that. It isn't as if it ever really seemed like just him, after all, not until close to the end. Still, hearing it is something else entirely, especially with all the time he's had to second-guess himself. More recently, there was time, too, to second-guess the second-guessing, but S can't bear to think too much about that. If he did, he would probably say something he would regret, steer the conversation in a direction he's been trying to avoid. Talking about the way J wrote about him would tie too directly to J trying to kill him, and while that, of course, isn't something he can forget or fully lose sight of, it's better for them both if they don't linger on that subject for now. Just like the scars they both know are under his buttoned shirt, they can be aware of it without having to look directly at it, at least for a little while.

He would rather focus on this, anyway, the sweetness of J's fingers in his hair and his voice. S leans into his touch, just a little, closing his eyes for a moment to make sure he stays composed. This, he thinks, is why this is worth it. How could he ever turn away from someone he loves this much, who loves him right back, someone with whom he's been inextricably intertwined from the start? As wrong as this may be, how could that be any more right?

Leaning just a little bit into J's touch, he nods in agreement. "Me too," he says, quiet, smiling faintly and a touch unsteadily again. It feels so good to hear this now; it reminds him of how devastated he was in J's absence, losing that. Really, it's no wonder that he's been so adrift. He doesn't want to tell J he missed him again — they've said that so many times, and that, too, feels like it might be a little too emotional for this moment, given the various reasons why he had to miss J in the first place — but it's painfully true. Part of him died when J did; that part of him feels like it might be coming back to life now, too. "This..." He trails off, shakes his head, incredulous and loving. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we get to have this."

It would have been easier on them both, probably, if that weren't true, if they'd managed to fall out of love with each other. No matter how bad things got, though, J could never get there. There were times when that infuriated him or sent him into despair, unable to get S out of his head or his heart, to work him out from under his skin. No matter what he tried or told himself, S was always there, and being angry about that only made things worse, made him mad at himself in turn — for not wanting S enough or for wanting him at all, for not trying enough, for being so pathetically in love with someone who was bad for him, for acting like S was the problem in this equation. Everything and nothing, back and forth, it was a constant process of fighting himself, lying to himself, never being entirely sure what was what.

He goes through that a lot, over a lot of things, but there's little else he debated so fiercely in his head for so long, and little else where he knew the whole time he was wrong.

It would have been easier for S, at least. He would have hurt less if he'd loved J less. And had J loved him less, he wouldn't have tried to kill him, a thought that leaves him unsettled, out of place when everything about this moment seems so peaceful.

If he hadn't done that, he's not sure how much longer he would have gone on trying to convince himself that what he was doing had meaning.

But he did and it woke him up, and that's why S had to fucking grieve for him, and it's just a twisted mess, and he can't think about this, he really can't. He wants to do better, he wants to do as he told S he would, and he can't do that if he thinks about this now.

"So am I," he says, trying to focus instead on how much he means that. In spite of everything, he does; he's glad they're here, glad they're together, however irrational it might be. "I still don't understand how I'm here, but if I get this... you... I don't think how matters." He has to hold onto that. They'll figure out the rest. Somehow, however impossible, they have each other now, the way it always should have been.

S doesn't understand it, either, not any of it. He didn't even before today, when he was just trying to get his own bearings here, settling into life in an unfamiliar place and, apparently, forty-some years in his future. This turn of events, J being here, a dead man somehow brought back to life, makes even less sense than all the rest of it. And yet, at the same time, it's the only thing that makes sense, too. His whole world has been thrown off-kilter and righted all at the same time, an unfathomable shift that feels, just as J said, like coming home. It shouldn't, probably. Neither of them is who they used to be. Those hands that he's always loved, that touch him so sweetly — that minutes ago were helping to utterly undo him — have done horrific things, too. Even knowing J didn't act alone, even holding someone else accountable, S can't just pretend like that's not the case.

But J already died once, and not very long ago at all was ready to kill himself again for the things he's done. For S to deny them both what they want because of it wouldn't change anything that happened or bring back any of the dead; for him to foist even more guilt on J than he's shouldering for himself already wouldn't make anything better. Right now, neither would S going into his reasons, such as they are, for feeling the way he does, but it isn't as if they won't still be the case when J has had more time to settle, when their collective emotional state is even just the slightest bit less precarious. Until then, all he really wants to do is take care of J, and, selfishly, to savor what it feels like to get to have him back.

"I don't think it matters, either," he agrees, gently kissing J's other cheek, lingering there for a moment, breathing him in. That J could always have had him, that it didn't need to be this place bringing them back together, doesn't matter either — or it does, it matters a great deal, but mostly just in how much more grateful S is to have this impossible chance now. "I..." I thought I'd never see you again, he thinks but doesn't say. It's too true, too much for this moment; it's not nearly enough, when just seeing J again doesn't begin to encompass anything else that's happened since. Lying here sated after sex, being in a relationship again, they're so much more than that, and he didn't even have any reason to hope for the barest fact of J being alive again. "I don't know how I got so lucky."

It's usually much harder to fight the instinct to protest that. There was a time when J would have happily acknowledged how lucky they both are. As his self-doubt grew, though, so did his tendency not to believe that applied to both of them. He's the lucky one, and often miserable in his luck. Sometimes it hurts to know how highly S thinks of him.

It would be so easy to tip back over the edge into the darkness. Tired and unguarded as he is, he could so easily go either way. But exhaustion also makes him too tired to fight, makes it simpler for him simply to go with it. "I'm luckier," he says instead, blinking a little at how heavy his eyes have gotten. He wouldn't blame S for being done with him. Even if he hadn't done such terrible things to other people, even if he'd never tried to physically harm S, he was a horrible boyfriend, and he's not an easy person to be around, never mind to be with. That S still loves him, just as he is, knowing everything, is more grace and love than he can fathom.

He doesn't want to argue and he's not trying to be sweet or cute or romantic. It's just true. He didn't want to be alive. That he is and has found any reason at all to want to stay that way is a miracle.

There's so much he could say about it. So much he should say, probably, but it feels so nice to have S close like this, watching over him, like he's still someone worth protecting. "Don't let me fall asleep," is what he says instead, shifting forward to lean his forehead against S's again, stealing a quick kiss. He could use the sleep, he knows it, but he doesn't want to lose this moment so soon. Or, for that matter, fall asleep all gross like this and have to deal with it when he wakes up. Besides, there's a little part of him suddenly afraid that, if he does fall asleep, all of this will go away when he wakes up.