beklemmt | (no subject)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hearing that, S wants to agree. It's always been J; he's always been J's, and even now, maybe, counterintuitively, even especially now, he wouldn't want it any other way. He would have to pull away to say so, though, and he would much rather continue what he's doing, gradually taking J deeper, lips and tongue slowly starting to work. Out of practice as he might be, there was a time when he wasn't, and this is familiar, too. As much as he wishes they'd never separated, there's a sort of thrill in learning each other's bodies again, in remembering sounds and tastes and different cues, and one in having confirmation that they're still the only people who've gotten to know each other like this. No one else has been where he is; he wouldn't have wanted to be here for anyone else.

This, though, he wants, humming approvingly in lieu of a response to what J says, and a little bit, too, to the hands in his shirt and hair, glad to be touched while he does this. Focused as he is, wanting to make it as good as he can, any awareness of the ache in his hips and legs starts to fade. It's worth it to get to do this again — an odd thing to savor, perhaps, but he enjoys it all the same, the visceral awareness of the effect he can have on J, the mutual vulnerability in it, the taste and feel of J heavy on his tongue.

Still not wanting to hurry this, not wanting to make it end too quickly, he sets a pace that's steady but not yet too fast, his attention more on depth and what he can work up to than speed.

It's all J can do not to buck his hips as S sinks down further, the wet heat of his mouth almost unbearably good. His fingers grip S's shirt tighter, careful not to do the same with his hair, and he focuses on staying steady and still, at least mostly. With as long as it's been since they last did this, he doesn't want to be rough with S. He doesn't want to rush through this either. With how much doing the same for S got to him and how long he's been celibate before today, he knows he's already wound up enough that this won't last nearly as long as he'd like anyway.

That doesn't really matter. Nothing much matters except this, how good S is, even when it's been so long, and the way J can feel every little noise he makes, the focus he lavishes on J now. It's surreal to be the center of such utter affection, and he lets himself relax into it, pressed back into the wall, eyes falling shut as he groans. "So good," he sighs. "You feel perfect, fuck." With some effort, he opens his eyes again, gazing down at S. He's obscenely pretty, always, but there's something so heady about watching him like this, beautiful lips wrapped tight around J, looking like he's enjoying this — not as much as J is, certainly, but even so. Just knowing he wants this, too, makes J shudder a little, letting out a whimper. "So beautiful, darling."

It isn't even the first time today that J has called him that, but still, the endearment draws a soft little whimper from S in turn, muffled as he tries to take J deeper still. He isn't sure, really, why it gets under his skin as much as it does — not even, this time, in an arousing way, just an emotional one. There was a time when calling each other pet names like that was common, nothing he would have needed to think twice about, either in using one or hearing one. So much has happened since then, though; so much has changed, except in the ways it hasn't, except in how right this still feels and how utterly he belongs to the man in front of him. He wants the same to be true in turn, thinks it might be, wants that always he said a moment ago to remain true. Doing this isn't any way to keep J here, either with him or in this city, alive, in the first place, but it can't hurt. He likes it, anyway, getting to be the one who does this, who makes J sound like that, who knows what he tastes like.

His hand curling around J's hip, a vague attempt at keeping them both steady, S increases his pace just slightly, cheeks hollowing, intent, though still not rushed. When he knows this can only last so long in the first place, he has no interest in hurrying it along even more. With as long as it's been since they were together like this, he would much rather make it worth the wait.

J forgot, he thinks, how comforting sex can be. Good, physically — it's as if every bit of his body is focused precisely on the movement of S's lips and tongue and every soft sound that vibrates around him — but emotionally, too. The hand at his hip feels right somehow, gentle, steadying. In the middle of the intense desire running through him, there's a permanent pulse of love and wonder. Again it occurs to him that none of this makes sense, that none of it should be at all possible, but it flits through his mind and back out again. It's hard to focus on anything but how good this feels, soft moans and whimpers punching out of him again and again.

Even if it doesn't make any sense, it makes perfect sense all at once. How could they ever end up anywhere but together? For so long, S has been the person he most relied on, really the only person he felt safe relying on, confiding in, the only family he really had or needed. He meant it when he said he wanted to come home. That in itself feels incredible. That it comes with this is more than he could have imagined or hoped for, even had he dared to imagine up something as wild as this day has been. "Oh, like that," he murmurs, breathless, though there's really no way S could get this wrong at this point, a pleasant pressure building bit by bit. That part doesn't matter so much as letting S know he's doing well, out of practice or not, showering him with praise. "Making me feel so good."

Every sound J makes, every pant and moan, cuts right through him, spurs S on all the more. It isn't as if he'd expected not to have an effect like this. Some things just feel good, no matter what, and while he hasn't done this in a long while, it isn't as if he's completely clueless, just figuring it out for the first time. Hearing it, though, and knowing that he's the cause of it is a different matter entirely. It's all he wants, really, to make J feel good, and like this, he can actually accomplish it, even if it's temporary, even if it's a little clumsy, even if it's something anyone else could have done. He's still the one who's here, just this side of overwhelmed but in the best, most beautiful way, taking J just as deep as he can, trying to repeat the same motion that got him to say like that.

It occurs to him briefly that he could slow down again, tease and drag it out a little longer, but even without being in a hurry, he doesn't want to keep J waiting, either. There will be other times — and that's still a stunning thought all on its own — to make it last and drive J crazy, to see just how long he can drag it out. Something to look forward to, he thinks, and realizes only fleetingly that he doesn't remember the last time he really had anything to look forward to at all before he banishes that thought in favor of keeping his focus on the here and now, J occupying all of his senses.

As much as J would like to stay in this moment longer, lingering in the warm, hazy space between tensely poised on the edge of orgasm and relaxed from how good he feels, he knows he can't. For one thing, S can only keep this going for so long. Mostly, though, it's been way too long since he had this. Even having come once already, and not that long ago, he really isn't used to this anymore. Between that and how well S is taking him and how good it feels to have this kind of love and attention focused on him, he knows an end is imminent.

It would be disappointing if he didn't feel fucking wonderful. And, too, there's the prospect of tomorrow, of the day after that, even. It seems possible now, which is more than he could have said an hour ago or even this morning. That in itself feels incredible, just knowing he has something to hold onto, something to want that won't, hopefully, hurt anyone else. Some kind of future, maybe, with S.

"Fuck, so close," he moans, pitching up into a whine. "So good." He's really not coherent enough to voice more of a warning than that, hoping distantly that S heard in case he's not in the mood to let J come in his mouth.

S hears, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't even consider it, really, though he doubts J would mind if he drew back now. Being here, he would just rather see this through to the end. Trying to clearly convey that is largely impossible, though, without counterintuitively stopping to outright say so. He tries to make it as clear as he can instead, continuing without faltering, his hand still steady against J's hip, as much to help keep him supported as just for the sake of touching him. Even his mouth around J's dick doesn't really seem like contact enough; there's no way he could keep his hands to himself, not now that he gets to have this again, as if he needs further reassurance to know that this is still real, that J is solid and whole and warm and safe.

Whatever it takes, S means to try to see to it that that remains the case. Preoccupied as he is, the thought doesn't stay with him for long, but it's true all the same.

Ignoring how his jaw and throat are starting to feel, he keeps his head bobbing steadily, trying to make the way his mouth and tongue work insistent. If J is that close to the edge, then S wants it to be as good as possible when he falls over it.

J isn't entirely surprised that S doesn't falter. Different as they are, they're the same, too, in so many ways. Minutes ago, he didn't flinch; he wanted it, wanted to feel every second, to taste everything, utterly intoxicated by the chance to get to do so again. And as difficult as the last several months have been for him, S is the one who never turned away from their relationship. It stands to reason he's all in even for the smaller details.

Not that this feels small. On the contrary, this is all-encompassing. If being out of practice makes any difference to S's skills, J's hardly in a frame of mind to notice. If anything, it's better than he let himself remember, a pleasure that threatens to undo him entirely, and he doesn't think he'd mind for a moment. He doesn't try to fight it or hold it at bay, not when S is clearly certain. He just surrenders to it, lets the feeling envelop him until his orgasm crashes over him. Vision going briefly white, he cries out, barely enough presence of mind left to keep him from pulling S's hair, even as his hold tightens slightly. There's nothing else he can hold onto, nothing left in his world but S.

S is, at least, grateful for the warning, glad that he's ready for it when J comes, not least because it lets him look up, wanting to take in the view. It's an odd angle from down here, and he can only see so much, but still, J is stunning like this, lost in pleasure, the lines of his body pulled taut. Still S can't stop thinking that he did this, that he's the one who wrung that beautiful sound out of J, even as he swallows hard, shutting his eyes for a moment to collect himself as he does, breathless and a little overwhelmed but welcoming it. Maybe it's strange to think so, and it isn't as if this, specifically, has been on his mind in quite some time before today, but he missed it even so. He missed everything, really, when it comes to J; it's all that much better for it now.

Slowly, he eases back, though he doesn't go very far when he does, brushing the back of his hand over his mouth as he does, the other still resting over J's hip. Even trying to catch his breath and with his jaw a little sore, he smiles, faint and adoring and slightly awed, too hazy to keep his expression in check. It's incredible, really, and keeps hitting him, over and over, how lucky he is to have this again. He always knew he was, when they were first together, but if that was the case then, it's infinitely truer now.

It takes a few moments — maybe more, he's not sure — before J catches his breath enough to do anything at all, his heart still racing. "Fuck," he says, a wrung out exhale, and sinks slowly down to join S on the floor of the bathtub. He's exhausted and boneless and might be glowing, sated and blissful and achingly content, leaning forward to pull S into a kiss as soon as he can. That he can taste himself on S's lips is beside the point. It's strange, especially after so long, but not enough so to register in any real way, not when he has S to focus on.

Not that he's doing a very good job of focusing on much of anything, but if anyone could keep his attention now, it's S. He knows, vaguely, that sitting on the floor isn't going to help either of them get clean enough to get out of here and into bed, and now that he's come twice, he's at once hyperaware and very ready to sleep. It's not enough to get him to move quite yet, beyond resting a hand on S's thigh. "You're amazing," he says, soft and hoarse and utterly fond. He should have told S that sooner and more often and for a thousand other reasons, but this will have to do for now.

There are so many reasons, too, why it's strange to feel this happy on a day like this, but he's too gone in too many ways to think about that now. S is beautiful, rosy-cheeked and red-lipped, bright-eyed, with an expression J hasn't seen much of in longer than he can even name, which he loves with all his heart. Shifting forward enough to get closer still, limbs tangling, he kisses S's cheek. "How did I get so lucky?" He doesn't even know when he last felt lucky at all, but he does now, a distant, fuzzy bewilderment at that notion floating through the back of his mind and into nothingness.

It isn't at all what S is expecting, for J to sink down to the floor of the tub with him, and his smile pulls a little wider for it, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him. At least it means he doesn't have to try to get up yet, leaning into J instead, touching him just for the sake of it, fingers trailing over arm and shoulder and cheek, forehead resting against J's. He's exhausted, but for the first time in a long time, it's a good exhaustion. They can't stay down here forever or probably even for very much longer, and he thinks that they must look ridiculous, sitting in the tub, the shower still on, himself half-clothed, but right now, he doesn't much care. It's worth it to be close like this, S tucking his legs to his side so he can give his knees a break, his palm settling against J's jaw when J kisses him.

"I've been asking myself the same thing," he says, still a little awestruck, shaking his head slightly without pulling away. This shouldn't be possible. He knows that, hasn't been able to lose sight of it since he first spotted J on the sidewalk earlier, but here they are anyway, and it feels better even than he would have imagined, if he could have imagined something like this at all, which he couldn't. And he knows, too, that it won't always be like this, but even just for it to sometimes be like this, even just to have it now, makes all the rest more worthwhile than it already would have been.

The very fact of that is why he doesn't say any of it, not wanting to bring the mood down so soon. S thinks knowing is enough, though. For as long as they have, he doesn't want to lose sight of how lucky he is, and he doubts he ever could. Eyes half-shut, he kisses J on the lips again, figuring that J having done so first serves as an implicit permission of sorts. "I love you so much."

There's a part of J that instinctively wants to protest. S can't be lucky, not like he is, not when what he gets is J. But then that doesn't actually make sense, because the reason J is lucky is because S loves him. Both things have to be true, they both have to be fortunate right now, and it's confusing, or would be if he let himself dwell on it. He would at any other time, probably, or he'd just go ahead and protest, but right now, it doesn't matter. S's hand is so soft against his cheek, soft against his aching jaw, everything about him soft and gentle and good.

"I know," he says, awestruck himself. There were times when he doubted it. Or, more precisely, he knew that S loved him, but he worried that he'd fooled him somehow, that S loved who he thought J was, as if there could be anyone in the world who knew him better than S. Now he might question how S could still love him, but he's more certain of that love than he thinks he's been since the first year of their relationship. More certain, too, of his own love, of the way his heart almost hurts when he draws back just enough to look at S, so full of love he doesn't know how it fits. Nothing about today makes any kind of logical sense, but this, this makes more sense than anything else ever has. It was always going to be them, from the moment they met. They could never have imagined then how it would turn out, this shouldn't be possible, and yet it's precisely how it should be.

"I love you," he whispers, leaning in for another kiss, hand coming up to cover S's. They need to get up and finish here; S can't possibly be comfortable in that shirt. Still, J can't bring himself to move quite yet. He just wants to stay here in this moment a little longer, savoring what it's like to be actually happy for a change.

They should stop, probably. S has thought so intermittently today — back on the couch, when they first started kissing in his bedroom — and he does so again now, but the thought is a distant one, there but not enough to make any kind of difference. A few moments more of this won't hurt, with J's mouth so sweet against his own, J's hand soft and warm where it rests over his. J loves him, and even if he once knew that, or at least believed it, it's so different to hear it now, after everything, to get to be close like this again. If he weren't so tired now, his body aching, his heart still pounding, he'd be half-tempted just to crawl into J's lap and start this all over again, show J just how much he's loved, but he thinks he's finally too worn out for that. Already he's pushed himself further than he probably should have at once, though it's hard to hard to care about that when he feels so good as a result.

It's strange, really. Earlier today, he was miserable. He's been grieving for months. While he knows it makes sense that he's all the more appreciative of this because of that, S still wouldn't have expected that this kind of — joy, really, could stem from all of that unhappiness. He never expected he would be happy like this again at all. Fine, probably, eventually, but he would always have carried that loss around with him, always had a part of himself carved away, leaving a space he would never be able to fill. He's not actually sure that won't still be the case — what happened still happened — but this can exist alongside it now, nothing short of a miracle.

Even now, he wants to keep saying it, to tell J that he loves him over and over, to make up for all the time he never got to, as if doing so might somehow keep him here. S kisses him again instead, which is close enough to the same thing anyway.

Not for the first time today, it strikes J just how much tenderness there is in the way S kisses him, in the softness of his touch. It could make him miserable if he let it, knowing he was enough of a fool to give this away, monster enough to try to snuff it out entirely. Right now, he just wants to hold onto it with all the strength he can muster.

He's gentle now, kissing S sweet and slow, savoring the peace of the moment. His skin still feels electric; it's fading now to something quieter, but it's still there, his heart racing, just enough to make him viscerally aware how alive he is. Had S not been here when he arrived, he suspects he would have tried to make it a day at least, that it was seeing what he did that sent him into such a tailspin. He's more certain that it wouldn't have worked. If anything is worth staying alive for, wrestling with all that guilt for, it has to be this. S deserves his effort, at least. S makes him want to try.

When he draws back, that's slow, too, reluctant to stop though he knows they should. "Come on," he murmurs. "Think you're okay to stand?" Once they finish getting cleaned off, they can get out of here and into bed. He's not sure what S will do, if he'll join him or not, but J knows he doesn't have long before he's too tired to do anything at all. Relaxed and contented, it's already difficult to fight off the way his eyes threaten to close and stay closed. That's a relief, too. As hard as it is to push through the fatigue, it feels good to think he might actually be able to sleep.

Even knowing they should stop, even, admittedly, starting to look forward to getting out of this soaked shirt, S is reluctant to pull away, nodding but leaning in again, kissing J's forehead, temple, cheek. It's hard to be anything but stupidly affectionate right now, still struck by how stunning J is, how S thought he would never get to do this again. Although he's not as afraid as he was earlier, J no longer seeming in quite so imminent danger of ending his life again, it's still there in the back of his head, that he can't guarantee this will last. Right now, it makes S want all the more to make this most of this while he can, memorizing and cherishing everything, though memory could never do this feeling justice.

They really can't just keep sitting here, though, so finally, biting back a sigh, he nods again. "I should be," he says. Sore as he is, he should still be alright on his feet, and the sooner they finish washing up, the sooner he can get changed and off his feet again. J has already said he'll stay, at least for tonight. S hopes he'll stay longer than that, but it isn't as if, once they're finished in here, he'll be on his own again. They'll still have this, a fact that still makes his head spin.

Making himself sit back further, S starts to shift so he can pull himself to his feet, a hand against the wall again to steady himself. He looks over at J, though, as he does, still more fond than anything else, the slightest bit teasing. "Are you?"

J smiles, brow arching, and shakes his head. "I don't know," he says, mostly joking. He hadn't thought about it actually, just figured they needed to get up and finish in here, but now that S mentions it, it's a question worth asking. He's exhausted, albeit pleasantly so, hips and jaw sore. At least sitting for a little while means he's pretty sure he's not so weak in the knees as he was a couple minutes ago. "I guess we'll see."

He gets to his feet carefully, a touch wobblier than he anticipated, but fine all the same, intent on returning to helping S clean up — in earnest, this time. Instead he steps closer to kiss S again. "See, I'm fine," he says when he pulls back. "But you might be stuck with me tomorrow. I don't think either of us are going to be walking much." He might be okay now, but they're both going to be feeling this still tomorrow. Worth it, though, he figures. Besides, they have a lot of lost time to make up for.

It's tempting to tease S, to say he might end up having to move in if they keep this up, but he bites it back. It's hard not to get caught up in the heady whirlwind of being back together, easy to be afraid of what happens when he's left alone, but he has to be sure. He doesn't want to move too fast and damage what they still have; he doesn't want to tip back over into madness and risk hurting S. It's a sobering thought to have now, one he masks by ducking around S to find the shampoo, one he pushes aside into the back of his mind, marked as something to dwell on later, probably more than he should. Until he's more certain he's safe for S to be around, he has to be careful.

Today, though, he thinks he'll be okay. Volatile though his emotions have been, he's too wrung out from everything this day has been to be any threat, he thinks, either to S or himself. "Come here," he says, squeezing shampoo into his palm. "Let me wash your hair." He knows S is perfectly capable of doing this on his own, but since he's here, he wants to do it, a gesture of affection that won't — probably — end in their having sex again.

S can only smile, soft and a little self-conscious, gaze cast slightly down, at the assertion that he might be stuck with J tomorrow. "I was hoping I would be," he admits, his voice half-teasing but the words themselves entirely serious. What he wants, really, is for J just to stay here, but he knows he can't push for that. Already he's told J that he'll always be welcome here, and he can't do anything more than that, fears that trying to insist J stay longer would just send him in the wrong direction. It will be better, probably, to take it slow, try to turn one day into two, then two into three, at least until J has had long enough to settle that S won't have to worry that he'll leave and decide to kill himself again after all. They can't spend the rest of their lives like this, he knows; he can't always be afraid of what might happen if they're apart. For now, though, just for a little while, he wants that reassurance that J is safe. No matter how much has changed since they were out on the couch earlier and how good he feels now, he hasn't forgotten how or why he broke down.

And, if he's honest, he would probably want J here anyway, despite the multitude of reasons it isn't exactly a sound idea, between the way things fell apart when they lived together before and the fact that the last time they saw each other before today, J tried to kill him. S isn't as worried about that as reason dictates he probably should be, though. He's seen how guilt-ridden J is over the things he's done, watched him cry over the sight of the scars he left on S's chest. In the time they've been together today, S hasn't once felt unsafe. Maybe it's unwise to trust that, trust J, as fervently as he does, and it isn't as if he won't be wary, but he doesn't think he has anything to fear here.

Somehow, it feels a little like proof of that when he tips his head back under the spray of the shower for a moment, then turns around so his back is to J. It sounds nice, really, having J wash his hair, easy as it would be to do himself, though he isn't sure why he's so surprised that they keep having the same thoughts; he wanted to do this for J when he was sitting beside the tub while J took a bath earlier but wasn't sure if it would have made things better or worse. This, though, this is good. "Here."

Even his heart aches. It's not a bad ache, really. There's something about being so wanted, so loved, that has a profound impact on J, hard to explain or even understand for himself. It's an overwhelming goodness, and something bittersweet, too. Even with shampoo in his hand, he takes a moment before he starts, stepping closer to press a kiss to the nape of S's neck. He knows, he wants to say. He knows S wants him to stay. He wants to be able to.

He knows, too, that love alone wasn't enough to stop him earlier — that love, in some way, was what undid him, what prompted him to attack when he was nearly about to let S leave unharmed. He can't risk it. He can't say so either, not wanting to upset the balance they have here, the loving calm. If he admits what he's worried about, they'll both be hurt by it, even if he wonders if S already knows.

So he brushes another kiss against S's neck before standing upright to wash his hair, gently massaging the shampoo through his hair, breathing in steam to help put himself back at ease. This, too, is soothing, pleasantly domestic. He missed this kind of thing more than he thought, he realizes now. It's enough to make him wonder absently if he can manage to stay awake longer after all. S mentioned food. He's less interested in the prospect of eating yet than he is in just being in the kitchen together, but he probably needs it regardless. It used to be so easy, the daily dance of living together. He misses the comfortable simplicity of it, the small happinesses they found just in doing little things together. He misses the person he was, someone who could enjoy such things without having to overthink it or worry, without blood on his hands.

They're clean now, at least literally, lather spilling over his fingers as he works them through S's hair. It's reassuring to be able to do something like this, to find calm in something small. "You're stuck with me either way," he says, soft, smiling just a little, though he knows S can't see him now. "Whether I live here or not." He wants to say he's not going anywhere. He wants to say as long as I live. He doesn't want them to have to think about how long that might be, how true it might be. "I'm yours."

That, at least, he knows with absolute certainty is true.

It feels good, J's mouth soft against his neck, his hands gentle in his hair. S breathes deeply, distracted for the moment from his thoughts, his head falling back a little again to give J more room. However easy it is, something he's done for himself countless times in J's absence, it's different like this, intimate rather than perfunctory, soothing, really, despite the simplicity of it. J's words are, too, calming even as they send a faint, pleasant shudder rolling down S's spine. Even as much as he wants J just to stay here, convinced that it's the sensible choice even as he knows, too, that there are reasons why they should ease back into things rather than diving in where they left off, he believes that much to be true. J says it, and S knows he wouldn't if he didn't mean it.

Of course, he also knows how quickly J's moods and opinions can change, how the things he loves one day, he might hate the next. S is still a little fearful of that now, though not for any reasons involving his own safety. Idly, he hopes J understands that — that for S to be here now, his eyes shut and back turned, throat bared, wouldn't be possible if not for how much he still trusts J — but it doesn't seem worth saying so or drawing attention to it, in case it brings up any of the reasons why that probably shouldn't be the case. What he's scared of instead is that J might decide not to try to stay after all, that he might swing back in the direction from earlier, or that J might come to resent him again like he did at the end, leading up to when he left. Everything still feels so fucking fragile, and it's worth it, unquestionably so, but that doesn't make the delicacy any less unnerving.

He doesn't want to say that, either, instead letting J's words echo in his head like a heartbeat. "Me too," he murmurs, just loud enough to be audible over the shower. "Yours." Not for the first time today, almost certainly not for the last, he thinks that's always been the case, that he's always belonged to J in some way, even before he was aware of it. In a way, it makes sense that the same is true in turn, but after everything, it's staggering, too, enough to knock the breath from him. Humming thoughtfully, he weighs his words for a moment. "And... like I said before. You'll always be welcome here."

There's soap in his hair and he's half-dressed and entirely drenched. He should — and does — look ridiculous. He's also, as far as J is concerned, the most beautiful person who's ever lived. There's so much grace and life in every line and curve of his profile, down his throat. And though, it occurs to him briefly, he thinks he did well when he wrote the movement for S, he's not sure anything could ever really do justice to this. The incandescent vitality of his being, even in repose, is something J knows he can never convey, and he'd be a fool to try ever again to write anything that tries to capture how it feels to be so in love with S and so utterly loved in return.

He wishes he could. He wishes desperately he had a piano and some time, a space in which to try and write something that comes even halfway to evoking this feeling. As fervently as he loves, as passionate as he is, it's still hard to find ways to express that at times. He trusts music when he doesn't trust his own voice. But he can't. Maybe never again.

But he's here. He's alive, somehow, and S is so lovely, so sweet, so trusting, leaning back with absolute faith. He says yours and that's enough, J thinks. It has to be and it is. Even when he knows now, again, with a certainty he lost that S means that entirely, J hasn't yet lost the sense of wonder that comes with hearing it. Carefully rinsing the shampoo out of S's hair, he shakes his head. "I know," he says. It's still nice to have reaffirmed. Months of voice messages he couldn't bear to erase until he had to told J as much before now. After today, though, it's not something he can take for granted. Even hearing it now, he knows he'll always need to ask, to be sure. He couldn't fault S for changing his mind about feeling safe living with someone who tried to kill him.

Hand sweeping over hand, rinsing the soap away, he focuses on the sensation of it, S's hair soft under his hands. "I want that," he admits. "I meant it earlier. You're my home." He slips his arms around S's waist when he finishes, pressing a kiss to his cheek now. "We'll see." It's hard to deny S anything right now, but he just can't commit to this, not until he's sure. It isn't worth putting S in danger.

For just a moment, S feels the faintest burst of what he realizes after a moment is guilt, or something like it, though there's no reason for that. They aren't even doing anything particularly complicated, nothing they haven't done dozens of times, probably countless times, before. Just as when he was crying on the couch earlier, though, he realizes that it's been a long time since he had anyone to take care of him. J did, for a time, and S has never forgotten or stopped being grateful for that, but somewhere down the line, things changed, and he still doesn't entirely understand it. He never minded, either, being the one doing the caretaking — enjoyed it, really, or as much as he could when he would so often be so worried about J, wanting to be able to make some difference for him. Once he was on his own, it isn't as if S had anyone else to step in. Even recovering from his wounds, he had to weather by himself. But J is so gentle with him, and maybe it's the fact that this is so insignificant, so unnecessary, that makes it mean that much more, makes it hard to ignore the voice from before that says he shouldn't need this, shouldn't savor it so much.

Maybe neither of them is very good at being taken care of, at least not anymore.

It's a fleeting thought, one he pushes away in favor of focusing on J's hands and how good they feel rinsing the shampoo from his head, on what J says as he finishes. S draws in a slow, deliberate breath, then nods, straightening a little, so he can better lean into J's touch. This, too, hurts a little to hear when he was there all along, wanting J to come home, but he can at least try to tell himself that maybe it's better this way, that J got here, not necessarily on his own terms, but is saying this now of his own accord. Despite what it took, they're both home now.

"And you're mine," he says softly, not wanting to get more into it than that, to have to acknowledge how long he's gone without having one, how he knows he never would have had one again. He doesn't want to push, either, and run the risk of it sending J in the opposite direction, though at least for the moment, that doesn't seem very likely. "Whether you stay here or not, that won't change."

It's for the best, J wants to say. He's fucked up so many times in so many ways, done such unforgivable things. He doesn't want to say no to anything S wants right now. Even we'll see feels cruelly distant when they both want this so badly. But he knows with absolute certainty that, if he were to misjudge his own sanity, if he were ever to hurt S again, he wouldn't be able to live with it. He can't risk harming S physically, and he can't risk the pain it would cause if S had to endure losing him again. Even now, still feeling mostly peaceful, he's aware that's going to be enough of a struggle as it is. S has helped so much to keep the ghosts and demons at bay for the last while, but that can't always be the case. There will be times when S has to leave him alone, and J can't ask him to carry all his burdens anyway. It won't always work. It didn't before, and he knows he's only gotten worse, much more than he ever imagined possible. Being around S helps right now, but even the tiniest risk he might hurt him is too much of one to take.

It's comforting, at least, to hear S say that where he lives won't change things. If the last day hasn't, nothing could, but all the same, it's reassuring. Even if they can't or won't discuss it yet, at least he knows S understands.

Leaning his head against S's, he gives a soft hum of agreement. "Always," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the corner of S's mouth. "Always, always." If all he's done to others and to S and to himself hasn't changed their bond for the worse, nothing could. "Mm, okay, what next? Conditioner? Soap?" He wants to get S out of here fast. The shirt has to be increasingly uncomfortable, and he doesn't know if the hot water will give out suddenly.

That one word, always, sounds so much better than it has any right to. S's eyes close again for a moment as he nods, taking that in, trying to commit the weight of it to memory. As delicate as this still is, he thinks that it probably shouldn't mean as much as it does — except that whatever else happens, he knows it will still be true regardless. If J kills himself again, if J hurts him, if any act of fate tears them apart or any other person does, J will still be his home, the only one he's had in a long time, and he'll want to continue being J's. Nothing else has to matter yet. Now isn't even the time to get into the reasons why he thinks it would be more practical for J to stay here, though they're all true; really, it just seems like a waste for them to be paying for two separate apartments when they want to be together. It can wait. He doesn't, he reminds himself again, want to push for too much and risk disrupting the peace they've found here with each other.

A tacit sort of agreement, confirmation that the same is true for him, too, S leans in for one more soft kiss, lingering a moment, not wanting to move on too quickly. "Conditioner," he says when he does, perhaps a little selfishly wanting to let J finish washing his hair. Glad as he'll be to get out of the shower and this wet shirt, he likes this enough not to want to rush it, even if there's no reason they couldn't stay close once they get out of the tub. "Please."

Looking at J, he almost forgets for a moment what he wanted to say, though at least it comes back to him before he can make himself look even more ridiculous than he probably already does. "Do you want to wash your hair again after?" he asks. "Or not yet?" It feels like forever ago that J was sitting here, S fully clothed beside the tub, but it wasn't really very long at all. Nothing about today makes any kind of sense, really, except that they're here now, back with each other where they belong, home in any world or city or apartment or time.

There's a little flicker of relief and pleasure at S's response. Conditioner means a little longer here. As much as J would like to sleep, he's not entirely convinced he'll be able to even now. It seems much more possible than it has in a long time, and he knows that, if S gets into bed with him, it'll be that much easier. He's missed falling asleep curled together like that. That doesn't mean it will work, though, when sleep has eluded him for so long. Weeks, at least. Months more likely, though it's hard to keep track of time when everything bleeds together like this. Waiting a little longer to see if that's changed is a small price for getting to linger with S.

He's tempted, too, to say that he always wants to wash his hair — or, more accurately, that he would like S to do it for him, because he sees right through him, and he knows what that question really means. It would be so nice, he thinks, to say yes, to relax and let S work his fingers through his hair. But he's already washed his hair once today, and it seems like a waste of time to do so again when they could just get in bed and cuddle instead.

Reluctant though he is to pull away, he does so, reaching for the conditioner. "Not yet," he says. "Next time. Right now, I just want to get dry and in bed." With a dollop in hand, he sets the bottle down and starts working the conditioner into S's hair. For a moment, he thinks maybe he's overstepped, but he realizes abruptly in the next instant that that's ridiculous. S wants him to stay the night — to stay much longer, really — and they've already had sex today. That bed is partially his now.