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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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It's more relieving than it probably should be. Things still feel a little off, not as warm and relaxed as they were a minute or two ago, and S is a touch uneasy for that, but mostly, he thinks they've gotten around this as well as they can for now. Had they not been able to, he would, of course, have done whatever he could to deal with it; it isn't like J's emotions are a burden, not least when S knows full well why everything is so fraught right now. But for J's sake, if nothing else, he would rather they not have to go in that direction yet. When they do, he'll be here. It would just be too much for right now, he thinks, so close on the heels of everything that happened earlier. Trying to figure out another solution for J not wanting to see the scars on his chest would, too. For the moment, this is sufficient — more than, it's still incredible, with how lucky he knows is to be here with J at all, to even have the chance to weigh what conversations should and shouldn't happen yet. It's a strange thing to remind him of how fortunate he is, but then, he doubts he could stop thinking that if he tried.

"I'm coming," he says, letting himself look and sound ever so slightly teasing as he carefully steps into the shower, moving in close to J as soon as he has. If they're going to make this quick, then he ought to be a little cautious so they can try not to get carried away with each other, but still, he's not about to take a shower with his boyfriend for the first time in ages and keep a distance.

And, yes, it's a little weird to be standing here in a button-down shirt, even one that's now wrinkled and in need of washing, and even keeping this quick, it'll be soaked by the time they're done, but S can't bring himself to care all that much. He just rests his other hand gently on J's hip and resists the impulse to comment on how long it's been since they've done this. "Water temperature okay for you?"

For a moment, J wants nothing more than to lean forward and curl into S, ask him just to hold him for a little while. It isn't fair, though, that he keep asking for support, literal and otherwise, least of all when S is still a little unsteady and doubtless exhausted, and he knows if he lets himself give into that urge, it'll be harder to keep out the worst of his thoughts.

Still, it's nice just to have him close, to feel his hand warm and soft against his hip. This used to be so commonplace, sometimes more domestic than sexual, sometimes not, and he finds himself a little bit nostalgic. It's a more pleasant kind of wistful, at least. He nods, lifting his hand to brush S's hair back slightly, and gives him a soft kiss. "It's fine," he says. "Good." It is nice, actually, warm enough to be calming without scalding, and it's good to start getting clean. Sex might be the best possible way to get messy, but he doesn't enjoy staying that way for long, and this is always enjoyable, getting to have the tender intimacy afterwards, sometimes going for another round without having to worry about dirtying the sheets again or more. He doubts this is going to be particularly comfortable for S, though, which means anything like that should probably be put aside for now.

Still, he gives him another brief kiss. "I'm okay," he says, quiet. He almost lost his balance for a moment there, and he's not as content as he was just minutes ago, but he's feeling a little more settled already. It's a start.

J's hand in his hair feels good; J's reassurance that he's okay feels better. S knows, of course, that it isn't really that simple, but for the moment, he believes it, and for the moment, that's enough. His thumb absently stroking J's hip where he's rested his hand, he nods, his expression fond and sincere. Again, it occurs to him that he really ought to be careful, but with J here and warm and close, it's hard to convince himself to keep his hands to himself. They've been apart for too long, and it feels too good to be able to have this again, still a little surreal despite how obviously physically present J is, too. Even now, it feels on the cusp of being overwhelming, the sort of thing that could make him too emotional if he stopped to think about it for so long, and he doesn't want to put that on J's shoulders. He would rather just enjoy it.

"Good," he echoes, soft and a little hopeful, leaning forward so his forehead rests against J's. At first, he almost leaves it at that, but then that doesn't feel quite right, so he takes a deep breath, not yet pulling away. "If you're not... that's alright," he adds, just a little hesitant, not wanting to make things any worse by saying so. It seems important, though, to make sure that J knows that he doesn't have to try to keep it together for his sake. S wants so badly for him to be okay, but he wants, too, to be able to help if and when that isn't the case. "I'll be here for you. I promise."

J exhales heavily, trying to let the tension out of his body, though it's not really as easy as that. It helps, though, that he can be close with S like this while still not having to look him in the eyes as he regains his balance. "I know you will," he says, still soft. "I hate that you have to be."

It isn't right. S always tried to take care of him and J just pushed him away. Even that would be reason enough to feel he doesn't deserve this, but with everything else he's done, it seems blatantly unfair that S should be the one trying to make him feel better. He's the one who fucked up. He shouldn't get to be comforted for the fact that he can't handle that.

Biting his lip, he gives S's hand a squeeze. It's such a precarious existence and he hasn't even been here long. He appreciates S's sweetness, his willingness to acknowledge that J might not be okay, at the same time it hurts for him to do the same for himself. But he knows he was right before, too. If he weren't rendered utterly miserable by his crimes, he'd be a monster, more of one than he already is. He wants to be okay. He really does, he wants to fight and do better, if only for S's sake. He's just not sure he's allowed to without sacrificing his remaining humanity.

But if he lets himself stayed weighed down by his misery, he'll only drag S down with him.

"I'm glad you are," he adds, trying hard to make an effort here. He knows he couldn't do this alone. "I'm glad you're here with me."

"I don't have to be," S corrects gently, head ducking forward so he can press a kiss to J's shoulder, damp from the spray of the shower. "I want to be." There's nothing keeping him here except his own foolish, damaged heart. He could have walked away from J on the street earlier, or let him stay without falling, perhaps counterintuitively, back into sex and then a relationship. It isn't out of any sense of obligation that he's done otherwise. While he's wondered, so often these past months, what he could have done differently to prevent everything turning out the way it did, he still knows that it wasn't on him. He wants, so badly, to get things right this time, but it wasn't for lack of trying that he didn't before.

At least this time, there won't be anyone else to intervene, to leave him trapped and voiceless, backed into an impossible corner. He can't let himself think about that now, can't go down a path that would only leave him tense and angry when he's trying to make J feel better, but still, it's easier to think they'll stand a chance, and easier, too, to feel safe here with J, now that there won't be anyone whispering poison into his ear, putting the knife in his hand and guiding it where to go.

He squeezes J's hand in turn, giving him a thin smile as he tries to push those thoughts away. Now isn't the time. There are conversations they should probably have eventually, but not now, when everything is still so fragile, when he's trying so damn hard to keep J even the slightest bit okay. A little quieter, his expression bittersweet, he says, "Here with you is the only place I want to be."

It's a small gesture, just a little kiss, but it means all the more for that. J knows it shouldn't be this easy to let themselves fall back into old habits, but it is, easier than he would have expected. That simple tenderness means everything. He's not sure he'll ever be able to understand how S gives him so much so readily. Maybe when they were younger, it made sense. But the older he gets, the worse he becomes at everything — being a boyfriend, an artist, a person. He was always the more guarded of them. He's never let anyone in like he has with S. As much as he craves this intimacy, he wouldn't want it from anyone else anyway.

"I know," he says again, still quiet. It's silly, probably. There's no one here but them, no one to lower their voices for, but everything seems so vitally personal, so private. It's actually strangely nice. Free hand trailing down, he curls his fingers in S's shirt, already soaked through in patches. "This is where I want to be, too."

He knows S is going to have to keep telling him he wants this — he feels preemptively bad for that, too — but that's not exactly new. It's just different now, weightier even than before. He had his dark moments then — more than moments, moods that would last days on end. Of course there were times when he thought about ending his life. It was never more than that, though, passing thoughts, notions brought on by brief bursts of pain or that slipped in and surprised him. That was bad enough, but it was never like this, never intense enough for him to follow through. It's not something he was ever inclined to discuss, but he'd be surprised if S hadn't worried all the same. Now he has ample reason to. Right now, as unsettled as he might be, J is still steady enough to mean what he's saying; he wants to be here, and he'll fight for it, for S. But he was never good at fighting off these moods, and they've only gotten worse. He thinks to himself that S can't possibly know how bad it is. It's the moment when he has to correct himself that helps. He always felt like S knew him better than anyone else, but it's truer now than ever before.

His own attempt at a smile is flat, almost a grimace, but he tries. He ends up pulling a face instead. "I mean it," he says, a little less hushed, more emphatic. "I want this. I want you. I just... am not good at being taken care of." It takes him moments of thought to get the words out, but when he does, he surprises himself, lips twitching, almost a laugh. "I'm sure you're shocked."

"Very shocked. I never would have guessed," S says, completely deadpan, though it lasts only a moment before he does laugh. It's a soft little thing, more of an exhale than anything else, but it feels good, too. Usually he's the one trying to lighten the mood, doing whatever it takes to try to get J to smile, not very often succeeding. Whether intentional or not, it's sort of nice to have that reversed now, and for the moment to feel just a little less weighty again. He won't be able to hold all of this at bay forever, he knows that. If anything, he suspects that, if he tried to, it would just do more harm than good. However bad J may be at being taken care of, though — and S knows full well that he is — it just seems to be what's best for the moment. Later, when J is steadier, when he's had more time to adjust to this place and even to being alive again when he'd intended not to be, then they can start getting into some of the rest of it.

They've had so much time apart, anyway, too much, and they were never supposed to see each other again. Given what their last memories of each other were — his, J on top of him, killing him, and J's, presumably, S being closer to dead than not, though S has to resist the impulse to ask what, exactly, happened after he lost consciousness — he hardly thinks they could be blamed for just wanting to savor that for a little while. He isn't trying to pretend anything that happened away, and it isn't as if it doesn't matter. This just matters, too. S doesn't see how it would help anything for J to be flung further back into his own misery, not least with what the cost of that might well be.

For him, just hearing J say again that he wants to be here, that he wants him, is reason enough to stay in the present. After having been pushed away for so long, it means the world to hear that now, to even have a chance to get this right. S smiles just a little more steadily than a moment before, what he hopes will be encouraging. "And I'm sure you're shocked that I'm going to try to take care of you anyway." He shrugs, not quite playful, really, but light, at least. "I can't help it. I love you."

S laughs, S smiles, and it gives J an odd fluttering feeling, the same sort of sweet, pleasant surprise he'd feel when he first fell in love, or at least as he learned to give it that name. It feels good. Knowing he was able to do that, even inadvertently, is just good. He wants more of that. He spent so long making them both miserable. If he has to be alive again, he can at least try to make S happy now and then.

"Well, that's the biggest surprise today," he says wryly, but it's laced with fondness. "You taking care of me." He used to be better at letting that happen, he's sure of it. It just seemed easier when they were younger. Or not easier, exactly. It felt natural. It felt right. The same way he always tried to care for S, S looked after him. Of course, S has always been more naturally inclined to these things; he's a far more nurturing person, in J's estimation, than he is. With S, though, it came so readily to want to care for him and make sure he was well. When his parents died, that was even more the case. For a while there, J remembers being so sure that was the most important thing he could do with his life, supporting S. He doesn't know what changed, but he wants that back.

Letting go of S's hand, he slips his arms around his waist instead, pulling him close for a kiss. It's a strange sensation, actually, wet fabric rough against his chest, but it's not unpleasant, and certainly not enough so not to hold S tight. "I love you, too," he says. "And I don't... It isn't that I dislike it. Sometimes I like it very much. But sometimes it just... I shouldn't need you to so often." Least of all given why he's such a mess right now. But he's an adult. He's made his own problems, more than his fair share. S couldn't clean that up if he tried.

For a split second, S almost laughs again, not because of anything J has said, but because the absurdity of this strikes him all of a sudden. Even leaving out the part where he almost died and J did die, he can barely wrap his head around how, after all those months apart, with J not even taking his calls, the most honest conversation they've had about their relationship in as long as he can remember is while they're mostly naked in the shower together. It's good, though, to be able to say these things. He thinks it is, anyway, suppressing that instinct to laugh given the gravity of what's being said and just nodding instead, his forehead against J's and arms wrapping around him in turn. Despite being half-dressed, which is just strange, really, more so than anything else, it still feels good to hold J close like this. As much as anything else, he missed this, too — the casual sort of intimacy, the embraces and little touches, the things he didn't think twice about until he didn't get to have them anymore.

"I don't think there's any should or shouldn't about it," he says after a moment, thoughtful. They had their problems before J left. He was worried about J before he stopped seeing or hearing from him. S never expected that things would get quite as bad as they did, but J's unhappiness isn't exactly a new phenomenon. If that wasn't something he didn't want to take on, though, he wouldn't have. He certainly wouldn't be doing so again now, with every excuse to walk away. "And it's not... It's something I want to do. If you'll let me. What would I do instead, leave you to hurt on your own? Tell you just to get over it?"

He thinks they both know how unlikely, how impossible, that would be. The way he sees it, that would only make it worse, and maybe it's not really J needing to be taken care of if S is choosing that for himself. Fingertips of one hand absently tracing up and down J's spine, S sighs, not quite meeting J's eyes. "I love you. Not just... happy-you or sometimes-you. You."

It's a lot to think about even before S finishes. J has spent so much time in his own head with this, before he left and after, too, circling around the probability that S felt a need to take care of him that would one day turn into an obligation, a duty. It's already begun to worry him again today, knowing he's flickering in and out of stability. It's been quite probably the worst day of his life. It's also been a good day, surprisingly so, but he expects more bad ahead of him than good. He doesn't want S picking up behind him because he feels he has to.

But he's right too. J can't imagine S ever being that cruel, ignoring his pain. There are times when J doesn't think he entirely understands it, but he'd never tell him simply to get over it either. He's too kind for that, loves J too much for that. If he did those things, he wouldn't be the man J loves anyway.

So maybe that last part should be entirely self-explanatory, because, in all the time they've known each other, even when J wanted to cause a divide between them, S has never pushed him away. He's never just picked and chosen when to be with J. It should be obvious, probably, but somehow it isn't, it must not be, because J's entire chest pulls tight in some unnameable combination of misery and relief, shame and love. He holds J so tenderly, touches him so gently, and J wants to cry all over again, but it feels good, too. It's hard to trust anyone when he can't even trust himself, but he should have known better. He should have trusted S more. But then, how could he have expected this even from S? He'd thought even love must have its limits, that trying to kill someone — that killing others — would absolutely be that. It's still hard to wrap his mind around that not being the case. How can someone so wonderful love him when he hates himself so much? He struggled with that time and again when they were still together, unable to fathom how S could possibly still love who he was and not just who he'd been.

He's not even sure of his own voice now, throat tightening, too, his voice thick enough to betray him when he finally speaks. "Okay," he says, and even if he's more emotional than he wants to be, it's also kind of nice to have a positive reason for it. He gives a little nod. "I'll let you. And I'll try not to be an asshole about it." He can't even get his voice to sound as light as he means it to, his mouth a sad, lopsided curve trying to be a smile. It softens a little, though, as he shakes his head. "So you even love asshole-me?"

If this conversation weren't quite so weighted, if they were in a different moment, on a different day, S knows what he would say. He would crack a smile and tell J not to press his luck, or maybe even crack a joke about how he does, but only if J doesn't stab him again. It's too soon for that, though, if there will ever be a soon enough at all. Even if it weren't, S can hear over the sound of the shower the way J's voice changes, a sure enough sign on its own that this isn't the time to make light of anything. He doesn't always get that right, he knows. He didn't the last time they saw each other, but then, he didn't have any idea just what was going on yet, either. All he could see then was that J was surly and too hard on himself, the latter as usual, and S wanted to make him smile. This time, he has more to go on. J doesn't necessarily seem unhappy, anyway — not in this one moment — but just emotional, and though the way he sounds and the look on his face make something in S's chest constrict, what he says is a good thing.

It won't fix everything between them. It won't change the reasons why they're needing to have this conversation in the first place. But it's a start, a step forward, yet another thing that makes S just a little more hopeful that they might actually be able to make it work this time. He wishes they'd had this conversation a year ago — longer — but then, he doesn't know if it would have gone the same way then. Maybe, as fucked up as it is, all that they've both been through is what's helped them get here now. He hopes that's not the case, would much rather believe that, were it not for outside interference, they would have been fine, or at least found their way back to each other sooner, but there's no real sense in entertaining those what ifs anyway. What happened, happened. Nothing they do will take any of that back.

To him, that's all the more reason why they might as well let themselves have this.

"I'm not saying asshole-you doesn't sometimes drive me crazy," he says with an affectionate eye-roll. "But yes." Love, he thinks, isn't something to be meted out in portions or offered with conditions, picking and choosing when to love and when not to. It isn't always easy, but it just is, too. Even when J is at his worst, S loves him. Even knowing that J has killed people, too, though at least in that case, it helps to know the circumstances of why and how that all happened.

Leaning in, he kisses J again, soft but lingering, before he belatedly echoes, "Okay."

J can only imagine how exhausting he must be to be with. He's exhausted, both physically and emotionally. But S rolls his eyes and it's just enough to pull a little laugh out of him, a truer smile, as he leans into the kiss. There are no conditions on this, just S loving him, but it's actually nice to know there are qualifiers, sort of, to be reminded that this is something grounded and real. Hell, it's nice to be reminded that he can be obnoxious and still be loved. It's the least of his crimes, but on any given day, he's more likely to be annoying than any of the rest of it.

"Well, you drive me crazy sometimes too," he says wryly. It's not even, he's pretty sure, but it's not like S is perfect either. He's significantly less flawed, or flawed in less important ways, but he's not perfect, for which J is genuinely grateful. He has trouble enough grappling with all the ways in which S is better than him without him not also being annoying, too, in his own way. "I'll try to be asshole-me less often."

Tilting his head, he presses a kiss to S's jaw, lingering a moment just to feel the closeness of him. "Love you," he murmurs. "I guess we should get cleaned up. More."

S is surprised enough by what J says that he huffs out another laugh, though it's soft, without much humor behind it. "I know I do," he says, a little rueful and a little self-deprecating, still somehow gently teasing. The truth of it is, he's sometimes felt like his very existence has been enough to drive J crazy, and that might be what hurts most of all: that someone he loves so deeply could be hurt so much by the very fact of his being. Mostly, he holds it at bay, the fear that he might not be good for J. It's been a little easier of late, too, with what happened in his absence, though he isn't vain enough to think he could have prevented that, necessarily, and what's happened so far today. Still, the thought, when it does creep in, is a painful one. That he could somehow make things worse for J by trying to be there for him — if that were the case, he doesn't quite know what he would do.

He also knows that it's not just that -— that he's sometimes pushed too hard, usually out of concern that he didn't know how to express or want to do so overtly, that as patient as he is, he can snap when that patience finally wears thin. That as hard as he tries, he sometimes, or often, really, more so than not, gets things wrong. It's never really deterred him, though. Frustrated him, yes, but not enough to ever stop him from trying. Now more than ever, it feels worth it. As strange as it might be after everything that's happened, he thinks he feels closer to J now than he has in a long time. And if they're both trying, that has to be a good sign.

"I'll try to drive you crazy less often, too," he says, as seriously as he can with the soft brush of J's mouth against his jaw. "At least that sort of crazy." J is right, though; they are in here for a reason, no matter how easy it would be to get caught up in him all over again. "Yeah, we should."

Everything feels like such an absurd balancing act in his heart and his head. It hurts a little to hear S acknowledge this. Of course he knows he does. J has told him too many times. He's been cruel about it, he knows he has, all the more so for the fact that he knows S doesn't do it on purpose, not like he does. How can he try to do it less when he doesn't even know what will set J off? Even J doesn't know. The same things that bring him comfort now might anger him tomorrow. He hates this in himself, how volatile, how unpredictable he can be, even to himself; how S puts up with it, he doesn't know.

"How much can you do?" he asks, wryly resigned. "I'm already crazy." He must be, to do the things he's done. Normal people don't do such things — not even the murders alone, but everything else. Normal people don't kill themselves in flames and blood both, they don't try to kill the people they love, and they don't let jealousy eat away at the same love that sustains them. He must be mad. He feels it, has for a long time, as if parts of his brain were on fire long before he struck the match. Normal people might be miserable, but not consumed by their misery. They might see a ghost, but they wouldn't be haunted across sleepless nights like he is, hearing the voices of the dead, working them into song. He may not like it, he may try to work around it somehow, but he's crazy. S might as well accept that with all the rest. He doesn't want S feeling he has to tiptoe around him just to keep him steady.

Hands pulling forward to rest at S's waist now, so much gentler than before, he looks up again and gives him a quick kiss. "Other kinds of crazy are preferred." He'd rather show S as much than let himself get dragged back into torment, but he doesn't want to keep S in a wet shirt for long, even if, as J glances down a moment, he looks good like this, fabric clinging to his chest. "You're good at that kind. Do you want the soap? The shampoo?"

Instinctively, S wants to disagree. Although he suspects it probably shows in his expression, he makes himself resist that impulse. It isn't the word he would use — too dire for that and too dismissive — but still, he knows, deep down, that J isn't well. He did even before J tried to kill him, and before he wound up with J's journal, his heart breaking anew as he read about what was going through J's head for all those months. Worried as he might have been, part of what kept him calling even when J wouldn't answer, why he turned up determined to bring J home with him at the slightest word that J wanted to talk to him, he never would have guessed just how bad it was. For all that things seem to be better now, at least a little, getting more so, he knows, too, that that won't just go away. And no matter how much he wishes he could, no matter how much it hurts to consider this, he can't take that away, can't make J better through sheer force of will or love or whatever else. He doesn't know how to help something like that.

He can be here, though, aware of that but determined to stay, trying to do what he can, at least making sure that J isn't bearing it alone. Taking a breath, he shakes his head a little, still not wanting to describe J like that, as crazy, but sensing that they'll only argue if he tries to dispute it, a path he really doesn't want to go down right now. "I love you anyway," he says instead, not much more than a whisper, and this time, it's his voice that falters a little. Even that, he worries might be the wrong thing, too much of an agreement instead, no option here a safe one. It's true, though. Nothing could change that now, he's pretty sure, and J should at least know that he's not going into this blind or too naïve, expecting something that can't be true.

With J holding him close, his hands so tender now, S doesn't want to dwell on it for long, or risk being pulled back under and dragging J with him when they've finally managed to resurface. Instead, he summons up what he can of a small smile. "You're good at that kind, too. Soap, please."

Edited 2021-01-02 05:48 (UTC)

It's not easy, exactly, to hear; J doubts S means to say he thinks he's crazy, too, but there's an implicit acknowledgment there, and he doesn't want to be crazy or to be thought of as insane, even as he knows it must be so. It's the only explanation. Either he's a madman or he's a monster — a little bit of that one either way, but as much as he might hate himself for all he's done, he's slowly starting to feel maybe that word in itself might be a step too far. He can't pretend he didn't make his own choices, but he wasn't rational, however much sense it all seemed to make. Something is deeply wrong with him.

And yet, at the same time, it's precisely what he wants. It's much easier to allow himself this relationship knowing that S is aware. He can be so optimistic sometimes, particularly when it comes to J. This isn't the right time or place for that. He needs S clearheaded, not least because he knows he often isn't that himself, and he couldn't let himself be with S if he didn't think S were perfectly aware of what he is. He might be kinder about it than J is to himself, but he knows. For now, that's enough.

"I love you too," he says, smiling a little. He's exhausted and it shows, but he's trying. As many times as he knows he's already said it today, he doesn't think there can possibly be a limit right now, not when he spent so long not saying it. Lifting a hand to S's cheek, he kisses him, soft but brief. "No matter what I am or what I'm not, I love you." For as much as he knows that S will have to remind him time and again that he wants to be here and take care of him, J suspects he's going to have to say this a lot himself. There's so much here to fix, but he thinks — hopes — they're not beyond repair.

Pulling gently away, he steps past S to grab the soap. He's pretty sure this shower is bigger than the one they used to share, but it's still a shower. He's glad not to have to go far to pick it up and hand it to S. "You know if you say such things, we'll just have to shower again later," he adds wryly. "I like driving you that kind of crazy."

For one awful moment, S feels like he might be on the verge of falling apart again, his breath hitching quietly when J rests a hand on his cheek. He doesn't know why, really. This is a good thing, an important step, the most evenly balanced he's felt like the two of them have been in a long time. Even for him, though, it's been a particularly long day after a long few months, and it keeps coming back to him in waves, that J was dead, that they were never supposed to be able to have this again. It's overwhelming; all the challenges he knows they're facing and his concern for J make it even more so. But it's also so much better than he ever expected to get, and the last thing he wants is to bring the mood down again when it's so relieving that they've finally settled into some semblance of calmness. He makes himself breathe through it, leaning just a little into J's touch, desperately determined to keep himself steady.

It's a good thing, he tells himself again, though it isn't as if he really needs the reminder, as if he could possibly lose sight of that. J is here and alive; J loves him. Even the response that he'd feared might be the wrong one seems to have gone over well, J's accompanying little smile all the more beautiful for how long S went without seeing it before today. Just to be standing here with each other, they've made it through so much more than most people have to, or get to, weather together. Being grateful for that could easily make him emotional, too, but they've had more than enough of that for the time being, and he's sure there will be more to come.

At least what J says next offers a distraction, the corners of his mouth curling up a little as he takes the soap so he can start washing off. "I do, too," he says, then pauses a beat in mostly feigned consideration. "And I don't know that we'd have to shower again if we're already showering."

He's teasing, mostly, not so much looking for anything as he is enjoying having that option in front of him at all. Still, S can't say he minds the idea, either, even as it absently occurs to him that his water bill is probably going to be absurd for as much trouble as they have keeping their hands off each other. For that matter, he probably ought to be at least a little more careful, physically speaking, but he feels alright so far, and he missed this so much.

Edited 2021-01-02 09:19 (UTC)

J could feasibly blame it on how tired he is, how easily he keeps veering from mood to mood, worn out enough at this point that he's starting to loop back around to alert, perhaps too much so. But then, he knows, his moods haven't been steady in a long time. Still, after the day he's had, perhaps the fact that he can't keep his emotional balance is the most normal he's been in ages.

Whatever the reason, he startles himself by laughing, eyes widening as he hears himself. "Yah," he says, waving his hand through the spray, as if that'll do anything when they're both already wet, "you're insatiable." He doesn't pretend not to be entertained, though, or even that he isn't considering it. It's a far more pleasant alternative than letting himself think about everything weighing him down, after all, and easy enough to let his mind drift that direction instead. Even if nothing happens now, it's nice to have something to distract him, and, to that end, he lets himself look S over, enjoying the opportunity to see him. They're really going to have to figure out what to do about the shirt thing, but he still looks good, and it's been far too long since J got to see so for himself. Even when they were in bed just now, it was a different kind of view.

He's not entirely blind, certainly not when it comes to love. He knows he thinks highly of S, but he's also aware there are plenty of other attractive men in the world. It's just, as far as he's concerned, none of them compare, not really.

While he doesn't want to get in S's way, or to push for something when they're both tired and just trying to deal with everything that day has brought with it, he can't help wanting to reach out. If he's a little clingy today, well, he thinks they both are. Fingers curling in S's shirt, he tugs gently. "Not that I'm complaining, of course. Need any help?"

A little warmer and surer than before, S laughs at J's claim that he's insatiable, as if he's the only one of them for whom that's the case. Tempted as he is, he doesn't say that he missed J, or even that he missed this, as an explanation for it. It's true, but he would rather not draw attention to all the time they have to make up for, and with the way today has gone, he doubts he really needs to specify that there was never anyone else in the time that J was gone. In the months after he left, all S wanted was for him to come home; in the months after J died, even if he'd been physically capable of it, which he wasn't, S wouldn't have been interested in anyone else. Distantly, some part of him knows that he might have been, someday, but that mostly just feels unimaginable. And with J here now, it doesn't matter in the slightest. There's no one else he's ever wanted like this.

"You started it," he teases instead of any of that, though as he says so, he realizes he's not actually sure if that's true, already having lost track of who said what first. It was probably inevitable, anyway, being in the shower together, J naked and himself nearly so. When this was a more normal occurrence for them, it was easier not to get distracted by that sort of thing, though they often did anyway. Now, though — well, he can only speak for himself, but there's been a heady rush to all of it, a thrill in just being wanted again, and a good distraction from the heavier conversations he thinks they should continue to steer clear of. J laughs, and it's as beautiful as any piece of music S has ever heard; this, definitely, is a much better subject for the time being.

And although he really doesn't need help washing himself off, he can't resist with J so close, tugging on his shirt like that. "And yes," he says, holding out the soap for J again, even though S is pretty sure he'll know that's not actually true, "please."

Edited 2021-01-02 10:54 (UTC)

S is more than capable of taking a shower by himself, J knows. He doesn't need assistance. That isn't the point. There's something about this he enjoys very much, the way helping to clean S is both sensual and sweet, a way of taking care of him.

"I said I'm not complaining," he points out, his smile coming more readily this time. Soap in hand, he works up a lather before he starts using it on S. He should have grabbed the washcloth probably, and he's not sure he'll be all that effective, but that doesn't stop him from trying, even if that mostly consists of his running both the soap and his hands over what he can reach of S's body. "I like it when you're insatiable."

Granted, he's hardly a model of restraint himself. There have been times, conversely, when he hasn't wanted to have sex at all for days at a time, and there were lulls when he was too irritable even if he wanted it. Much of the time, though, well, it's hard to keep his hands off of S, even if it's only playful and in passing. In fact, it's nice to feel that way now, to find him so irresistible, more like things used to be. It's strange to feel so nostalgic and yet more present than he has in some time, but it's not a bad strange — more dreamlike and yet real at once.

It's a fairly ineffective way of getting clean, probably, but S finds that he doesn't care. Despite having said before that they would be quick, he isn't really that bothered by the wet fabric of his shirt clinging to him, and that's easily counterbalanced by how nice it is to have J's hands on him. Even without any intent behind it, he would like this, how natural it feels, how easy, like before and yet not, too. Everything has changed, and yet this is constant, something intimately, beautifully familiar in spite of all that's different. J was right before, he thinks again. In an apartment he's barely moved into in a strange city in a world that doesn't make a single bit of sense, this is home. S doesn't think it's being dramatic but just a simple fact to feel certain that it's the only one he could ever have had.

Again, he holds back the words on the tip of his tongue: I missed this. I missed you. He did, but he's said that so many times today, and he'll probably continue to do so, too, still awed by getting to have this second chance together. It's all he can do to keep still, and ultimately, he gives that up, carding his hand through J's wet hair, fingertips trailing along his jaw before S drops his hand back to his side again.

"Feels good," he says, his voice a little quieter, mouth curved in a small, affectionate smile. "Definitely not going to make me any less insatiable." It's more of a joke than not. Even meant entirely innocently, he's always loved how J touches him.

This is why it was always so good with S, J's pretty sure. The way his fingers feel in J's hair, tracing along his jaw, is so good, it gets under his skin, perhaps more than it should, if only because it's new again. At the same time, it's the way he smiles that makes J's heart stutter in his chest, the quiet, easy love there. With those two things combined, of course he could never resist him.

"So my plan is working," he teases, hands stilling against S's chest. He's the one who said they should be quick, and the wet fabric beneath his hands is a vivid reminder of that fact, but there's no harm in being playful. If anything, it's a good thing. He feels like he's having to relearn happiness and how to be loved, but when S looks at him like that, the old lessons return more easily. Before he gets back to cleaning S up, though, he takes a moment to lean in and kiss him, slow and sweet. "I told you I like it. And I like making you feel good." Even if it's just helping him get washed up, it's enough to know he managed that.

Maybe, eventually, he won't have to be so careful with what he says. S doesn't mind it, the effort more than worth it anyway, but again he has to bite back words that threaten to spill out of him, that don't feel quite right for the moment. It would be true, to say that this, today, is the best he's felt in such a long time, and he thinks J ought to know that, too. But he doesn't want to risk bringing to mind the time they spent apart and all the reasons he had to be unhappy, and he knows how likely it is that J will blame himself for that. It seems better just to stay here in the warm contentedness of this moment, letting his boyfriend touch him, doing the same in turn, both of his hands settling on J's hips. Holding back any mention of all that is easy, anyway, when J kisses him like that, S instinctively, approvingly leaning into it.

"I didn't realize you had a plan, but in that case, yes, definitely working," he says, a clear assent, his smile growing just a little wider, still inordinately fond. It feels downright insane, actually, to feel as good as he does when he felt so awful just earlier today, but that's all the more reason why he wants to hold onto this as long as he can. He does for J's sake, too, when all touching and jokes about insatiability aside, just seeing him look and sound like he does now would be enough to make S feel good all on their own. "What else did this plan of yours involve?"

It won't always be like this, J knows that. Once he comes to terms with being in this place and being alive, once he comes down from the delirium of being here at all, things won't be this simple. Already he's vaguely aware of it, has already considered that he's going to have a difficult decision to make when it comes to his music. But right now, like this, it's so easy just to think that this is all he wants. The way S smiles at him now is enough.

"I didn't think that far ahead," he says, huffing out a laugh. He didn't even have a plan exactly, but he was hoping a little for something. At this point, he'd accept anything that keeps them feeling okay. With the way S holds him close and looks at him like that, so loving, he's more than succeeded. "Touch you. Make you feel good." He shrugs. "Improvise from there, I guess." They've always been good at that.

"You are touching me," S says, glancing down at where J's hands rest against his chest. Briefly, he lets himself wish that he didn't have to keep his shirt on, that he could let J touch more of him without wet fabric in the way, but there isn't anything to be done about that just yet. For right now, it's more than worth it to be able to stand here like this, in the casual, familiar intimacy of showering together, the mood so much lighter than it was just an hour or two ago. Eventually, they will have to figure out something they can do that doesn't involve him having to stay half-dressed while taking a shower, but right now, just seeing J smile makes wearing his shirt worthwhile. S doubts that he would really believe it if he said as much, but as beautiful as he always finds J to be, he doesn't think he's ever as much so as when he's smiling.

Simply because he can, S leans in for another kiss, soft but lingering, before he continues. "And you are making me feel good. So I guess it's time to start improvising," he teases. He doesn't really have any expectations; if anything, saying as much is meant to let J decide if he wants to keep going or just use their shower for its originally intended purpose, back off before they go too far. For his own part, S would be happy with anything that involves having J close and still in good spirits while they last.