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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For all that he wouldn't mind staying here even longer, and likes the idea of being able to wash J's hair like he wanted to earlier, S thinks that, getting dry and in bed, sounds nice, too. He has no intention of sleeping, but just to have J curled up beside him again, like the way they used to sleep, will be more than appealing all on its own. Like so much else, he hasn't shared a bed with anyone since he shared one with J, and he's missed that closeness, too. He's not in any hurry to end this, though, humming contentedly as J's hands work into his hair again, eyes staying half-shut. In a different way than earlier, this still seems like the best he's felt in a long time, even with everything still hanging overhead, even with as exhausted and achy as his body is.

By tomorrow, he knows, he's probably going to be covered in bruises, his waist and hips and thighs marked by J's hands, his neck by J's mouth. S hopes, in a distant sort of way, that J won't be bothered by that, will know he wanted it, relishes it, really, having physical proof of what's happened here and how wanted he's been. It's been a long time since he could say that was the case. Now it feels better even than he remembered for how much time has passed.

"Next time," he echoes with a slight nod, then after a moment, groans in faint, amused frustration as he considers the rest of what J has said. "We still need to remake the bed." There are other things they should probably do, too. He still isn't sure when J last ate, and though it's hard to think of anything offhand, S knows there are further explanations about this place he'll have to give, preferably before they go anywhere else. Getting in bed might just win, though.

Even as J makes an annoyed sound at being reminded they still have a chore to do, he doesn't really mind. It feels good, everything about this such a relief right now that it's a wonder he hasn't yet drifted off from finally relaxing or burst into tears again. Though all of this is new in the sense that he hasn't had it in a long time, it's also familiar, and the simple order of things helps so much more than he would have thought it would. Tired as he is, time still doesn't make sense, exactly, but he can see days ahead of them where it does, where they have things to do, little domestic chores and activities, that divide the time, rather than spending his days in a kind of fugue state where all he's entirely sure of is whether it's day or night. He can imagine — distant and vague, just an outline — a small life for them, quiet and simple. Not neat, exactly — he's never been all that good at being orderly, tidy — but theirs, contained, a little world that makes sense. With soap on his hands and S looking, sounding, quietly content, he can almost see nights of safety and actual rest, days of being loved, waking up in each other's arms.

He stopped being able to see that. Back in the last months they were together, he couldn't imagine peace between them — not like that, not lasting, just isolated moments in the center of the storm he brings with him wherever he goes. And even standing here, grumbling quietly about a chore but still softly satisfied, he knows it isn't that easy. The trouble with him hasn't gotten any better. If anything, he's much, much worse than when he left S. He's not sure he's capable of giving that kind of peace to S, giving him any kind of a settled life, the way he wants to.

But he wants to. That has to mean something, he knows it. For once, that seems like it might be, if not enough, at least a start. He kept putting his art before everything — even S, even himself — and the future shifted, everything he wanted fading into something different, clouded over by doubts and fears. After today, though, no matter how upsetting it is every time he thinks for even an instant that music is something he'll have to put aside — for a long time, if not forever — he also knows that his needs have shifted again. He hurt S, almost killed him. And while he hates that that's what it took to make him realize what matters most, at least he's realized it. At least he is, somehow, miraculously, alive to try and do something about it. At least, right now, in this tiny calm, it feels possible.

"I guess," he sighs, playing at sounding put upon at the idea of making a bed. It's hard to sound too annoyed, though, even in jest, when the world feels like it's starting to slowly unfurl in front of him, spring returning after a long winter. "All the more reason to finish soon." Even so, he takes his time rinsing the conditioner from S's hair, getting every last bit out before slipping his arms around his waist once more. "There we go."

It's been so long that S can't quite manage to bite back a smile at the attempted annoyance in J's voice, all the more so for how unconvincing it is. Under the circumstances, he would probably find just about anything endearing, but he still thinks it's cute. Really, he can't mind it as much as he otherwise might have, too, given the reason why they have to remake the bed in the first place. That, and sore as he might be, he doubts he's as tired as J is, remembering how J said something earlier about how he hasn't been sleeping. It's been an exhausting day anyway, in some ways very pleasantly so, in others very much not. With everything J has been through on top of that — S does not look at his scarred arm, not sure he could stomach it right now and not wanting to ruin this moment — it must be even more of one.

J needs the sleep; S needs to stay awake to keep an eye on him, idly wondering if he can manage to put coffee on before they lie down without drawing any attention to his doing so or why. It's a concern he files away for later, ducking his head to kiss J instead as J's arms settle around his waist again. They shouldn't linger — should try to finish soon, like J said, not least because wearing a wet shirt is starting to get a little bit annoying — but still he feels too good to pull away, his own hands between them, resting lightly over J's chest, touching him just for the sake of it. He missed this, all of it, the sex and the kissing and just the companionship, the warmth of J's body, his beautiful, delicate hands. S knows that if he keeps saying it, he's only going to draw attention to the reasons why he's had to miss it in the first place, but it's still true all the same, something he doubts he could lose sight of if he tried.

"You guess?" he asks, teasing, encouraging, his smile growing a little wider. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to sleep in the bed the way we left it." It was worth it, though, and then some. Even aching from the sex they had, even knowing he'll still probably be feeling it tomorrow and not really looking forward to having to make the bed up again now, he can't imagine any better reason to be this worn out.

He should move, probably, get the soap and finish washing up so they can get out of the shower. He lingers anyway, trying to memorize the way J looks right now. "That felt nice."

They've exchanged plenty of smiles now — more, to be honest, than J thought he had in himself — but it's so nice to see S looking happy. There's so much rolled up into expression, and J loves all of it — the playfulness, the contentment, the love. It's hard to believe he caused that, hard to wrap his mind around getting something right.

"I missed this," he says, soft, lifting a hand to rest at S's cheek. "Making you smile." He thought he'd forgotten how or somehow unlearned it. He knows he was more often the cause of pain, of tears, and that none of that could have stopped in his absence. It might have lessened, but he left S missing him and then grieving him. That he could bring him any kind of happiness is awe-inspiring. For a time, he thought his leaving was best for both of them. He can't pretend it was selfless, that he didn't put his own needs first when he went, but he was so sure it was right, that he hurt S too much to be any good for him. He can't undo the choices he made, and he's still not entirely sure that he was wrong about that one — he wasn't doing either of them any favors in staying — but he can choose better now. He hopes he can. He means to try.

Lifting his head just slightly, he draws S gently closer for another kiss. As much as he'd like to linger, he knows he shouldn't, drawing back much sooner than he'd like. "And, no," he adds, wry, but still so affectionate, "I do not want to sleep in that bed as it is. I hope you bought a lot of sheets."

The comment startles a laugh out of S, his head dropping briefly to J's shoulder, lips pressing against bare skin there just because. "I bought two sets of sheets," he says as he looks up again. "I'll do laundry tomorrow." He thought he would be alone here, after all, had no possible reason to expect otherwise, and the money that was waiting for him when he arrived could and will only go so far. Clothes, food, bedding, towels, toiletries — he's had to be careful and frugal with all of them, partly out of habit, partly because he doesn't want to risk that small reserve dwindling to nothing. Apparently there will be more where that came from next month, and by then, maybe he won't have to be quite so cautious, many of the essentials already purchased, but it's hard to trust a stipend just provided to him, too.

Already he's considered that he's going to have to find work of some kind, probably sooner rather than later. J's being here now makes that feel both more important — he can't help the part of him that hopes J will just move in, in which case S assumes he'd be supporting the both of them, at least for a while — and less so, with as unwilling as he is to leave J's side, still wanting to make sure J is steady before leaving him on his own for hours at a time every day. Eventually, they'll get there. S hopes they'll have a chance for that, anyway. Right now, though, everything is still too fresh and he's too fearful, a faint but steady pulse under the nearly overwhelming happiness he feels, the joy and relief at having J in his arms again.

Still smiling, still fond, he nods a little in belated agreement, leaning into the warmth of J's hand on his cheek. "I missed it, too," he says. Fewer and further between as they may have been near the end, and never mind since then, no one has ever been able to make him smile like J has. He's missed being able to do the same in turn, too, often as he might have failed at doing so, his attempts frequently backfiring. Since J has said so, though, he thinks it might be okay, might be safe, to do so, too. "I missed... all of this. I missed you."

It's something J still doesn't entirely understand. With how he behaved before he moved out, some part of him, he supposes, thought S might even be relieved to get rid of him, no matter how much S said otherwise. With everything he did after, S should have called the police the moment he saw him today. There's no point on the timeline where J would have expected S to miss him this much. After he died, yes, he would have expected some grief had he thought that far ahead into a future he never expected to see. But he would have thought S would be done with him. How S could love him through those months apart, how he could love J even now, J doesn't understand.

But it's true. He sees it in the way S looks at him, the way he holds him, the soft kiss on his shoulder, the tenderness in his voice. He sees it and he believes it, more now than he has in a long time. If S can still look at him, knowing all he's done, still love him so fiercely, then it's real. It has to be, more than he once let himself believe. Even when he wanted to believe it, part of him rejected that. This, though, is impossible to refute. It's everything and it's utterly surreal, looking at the person who matters more to him than anyone, seeing him look at J like he's the only person who exists.

He has to stop himself from apologizing again. Sorry as he is for all he's done and all he didn't do, he's said it enough times for now. He can pick up again later, after they've both had some rest. There will be plenty to talk about then. For now, he just swallows hard, trying not to get too emotional, overwhelmed by so many strange, swirling feelings — gratitude and melancholy, an endless affection, something bittersweet, relief. "I'm here," he says instead, hushed, guiding S closer for another kiss, soft but lingering longer now. "Don't wanna be anywhere else." He presses soft kisses to S's other cheek, to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "Maybe we'll get it right this time?" It comes out smaller than he'd like — a touch sad, maybe, but with more hope than he thought he could still muster.

Just what it is, S isn't sure — how emotional today has been already, how exhausted he is, months of loneliness and grief, that quiet fear that this won't last, or maybe some or all of them. Whatever the cause, though, he feels his chest constrict at what J says and the way J kisses him, the soft question, and he has to take a few deep breaths to fight off a sudden surge of feelings that would almost certainly ruin the mood. He almost thinks that he shouldn't have said anything after all, but then he quickly decides that that can't be right. Careful as he is and intends to continue being, he can't hold everything back, not if he does intend for this to work. Right now, there's too much else he needs to keep at bay. Add much more to that, and it wouldn't be fair, wouldn't be right. He can protect J without being dishonest. This is good, probably, actually. S just has to keep telling himself that.

"I want to," he says, soft, equally bittersweet and hopeful in turn, tipping his head into J's hand just enough to press a kiss to his palm. "After everything... I think we can. I hope we can." This, all that's happened today, seems to him like a good start, at least. It isn't perfect, but it never could have been, and that they've made it here anyway, all bound up in each other and all this affection, wanting to get it right, has to be promising. He doesn't care that he probably shouldn't; there's nothing he wants more than this. That, and whether this works out or not, to keep J here and safe and alive, regardless of what they are to each other.

Perhaps selfishly, he just hopes they can be this, what they once were and yet not, closer somehow, he thinks, inexplicably, for the mess that everything became and even just for the last few hours.

As much as he wants just to wrap J up in his arms and hold him for a little while, S thinks it's better saved for when they're out of the shower and dried off, when he won't have the thought in the back of his head that they should finish up before too long. He doesn't know how much longer the hot water will hold, and he suspects again that his water bill is going to be absurd, though he doesn't care about that as much as he should, and they'll be more comfortable that way anyway. With that in mind, he doesn't pull J closer, but he doesn't pull away yet either, lifting his chin to kiss J's forehead this time, lingering for a moment, breathing him in. "I love you."

He probably shouldn't have said that, J thinks distantly, or not like that, but he's not sure he cares either. If anything, he's glad he did. It might dampen the mood a little, to be honest about this, but he'd rather they be cautiously optimistic than blindly so. That S meets him on that point is promising. He knows there was a time when S would have reassured him that they'd make it work, so certain that whatever was wrong could be fixed, that their love would be enough, when J couldn't even be certain that their love was wholly real. Now he knows it is, the way he once did, and to see S approach this realistically helps, a reminder that they both know better now. S knows what J's done and who he is. J knows how badly he fucked up, the hundred ways he misjudged S and their relationship and what he himself needs. They can hope fervently to make this work, but neither of them can guarantee it. Being aware of that, he thinks, makes it all the more possible that they can figure this out.

Besides, he feels so much better now than he did when he got here. With S brushing a kiss against his forehead, being so sweet, he feels calm again. "I love you," he echoes, quiet but passionate. Whatever happens, he needs S to know that. Whether they work out or not, whether he lives or dies, it won't having anything to do with whether or not they love each other. He leans his head back to catch S's eyes again. "Come on. You can't be comfortable in this shirt still. Clean, get clean."

It isn't the time for him to say all the things he wants to say. It wouldn't be right to tell S again how he'll try, how he wants to be better. They have a tiny piece of happiness here. He knows he hasn't always been very good at holding onto these little moments of peace, that he's always been more inclined to shatter them. If they're going to work, though, and if he's going to try, he starts now. He refuses to drag this down by saying painful things they both already know. Their problems will still be here in an hour or six hours or twelve. As much as he wants them to be realistic about this, they can, he thinks, manage that without dwelling on apologies. Just for a little while, at least. He owes S that much. He can do that for S.

So he makes himself step back, too, reaching for the soap to hand off to S. "You're gonna come to bed, too, right?" he asks as it occurs to him again. It's not very late, or he doesn't think it is, though admittedly his grasp on time has grown increasingly skewed over the last several months. He might have worn S out, but he doesn't know if S is actually sleepy the way he is. "At least until I fall asleep?"

He can't say that he needs it, that even now he's scared that being exhausted won't be enough. He's not even sure he wants S to understand that right now. It's been too long, though, anyway, and he just wants to fall asleep with S holding him again.

He really isn't comfortable in his shirt, but even with J having done so first, S doesn't want to say so, thinks it's better not to draw any attention to the reason why he's wearing it. It isn't as if he minds, anyway. If he did, he wouldn't have suggested it, or would have kept this quick like they first said they would, or would have taken J up on his earlier offer to cut this short. He's just dimly but consistently aware of it. This solution won't be any kind of a permanent one. Really, S isn't sure he even has enough shirts to go through a clean one every time he and J shower together, and he doesn't think they should do so separately yet, remembering too well how J said before that he wasn't ready to be alone. Since then, he seems steadier, but S is certain that could change too easily, and that isn't a chance worth taking. For now, if this is what it takes, then it's worth it, the least of what he'd do to keep J safe.

So he's disappointed but he doesn't fight it when J steps back, resists the temptation to lean in and start kissing him again, to let his hands wander. S just takes the soap instead, looks around for a moment to figure out where the washcloth they left in here earlier is, and sets about finishing washing up, shooting a quick smile over at J as he does. A part of him thinks he should have just done this sooner. Mostly, though, despite his wet shirt, despite how exorbitant his water bill is likely to be, he thinks it's good that he didn't. As ridiculous as it might be to have had multiple serious conversations in the shower, mostly undressed, they seem like important ones to have had. He, at least, feels like they're on more solid ground with each other and what their relationship is, or can be, or will be, and prolonging their shower is more than worth it to have that.

Slightly distracted as he is, J's question comes as a surprise. S pauses, but only for a moment, his expression softening as he nods. It isn't as if it requires any thought. He was planning on staying with J anyway, just not actually sleeping; having him ask, though, makes something in S's chest twist a little, once again bittersweet, fond and a bit sad. "Of course," he says. He doesn't know what time it is, and really, he thinks they both should have something to eat first, but he doesn't want to make J stay awake if he's too tired. He'll just have to make them a good breakfast to make up for it tomorrow. "I'll stay with you." One corner of his mouth curls just a little higher again, a ghost of a smile. "I missed that, too."

J spends so much of his life tense in various degrees, he often doesn't notice it until it eases. He relaxes a little at S's reply, unsurprised yet relieved. It's hard to imagine a real reason why S wouldn't come to bed with him; even if it's early, they've both missed this too much for that. Even so, he wants it badly enough to need the reassurance. It was late into the night when he came here, or he's pretty sure it was, by the time it all ended. It wasn't half as late when he found himself in this city. Time doesn't mean much anymore.

"Good," he says with a little sigh of relief. He won't explain that he needs it, not just because he missed it, but because he's afraid he won't actually sleep if S isn't there to keep him steady while he tries. S can probably figure that out for himself anyway. "It's been too long." He pulls a face, stops just shy of apologizing again. "I know that's on me. But I missed it, too." It's been longer for S, too, than it has for him. With that in mind, they probably both need this. Even before the murders and the ghosts and the nightmares and the guilt, sleep rarely came easily for him. It was always better with S alongside him.

S doesn't say it, that J could have come home, that he wishes J had come home. Maybe if he had, things wouldn't have gotten so bad, but they might not have gotten this good, either. Regardless, it's in the past now, and they can't change it. Even as he's aware that he will probably have to keep reminding himself of it, S knows there's no real sense in entertaining any of those hypotheticals. Better to look ahead than behind them, to try to work with what they have than wish things were different and imagine how they might be so. They aren't. This is what they have, and as awful as everything has been for so long, where they've wound up seems pretty incredible, too. He meant it a moment ago, thinking that he feels like they're closer now for all they've had to deal with, that he understands J a little better. It would have been better if it hadn't happened — he can't say that he's grateful for the guilt J has to carry or the people who've died — but at least, if it had to, it brought them here, back to each other, where they belong.

Maybe even that is too optimistic, but S is trying hard not to be, knows that there are things here he can't just cast into a positive light. Really, he thinks it's just true. Nothing can be undone, but they can change how they go forward, and he would be crazy not to appreciate having this chance to get things right.

At what he suspects is an implicit apology, S pulls a face in turn, shaking his head. He can't pretend that isn't true either, when J is very much the one who left, but he doesn't want to harp on that any more than they have already. "We can make up for it now," he says, smile still slight, both bittersweet and reassuring. It's a little gratifying to know that while he was missing J, J was missing him, too, but S can't say he's glad for the fact of it, even if it would have been an easy thing to change. Ahead, not behind them. What they have, not any what ifs.

Having said that, he realizes it might sound like he's expecting J to stay here longer than has already been decided, but S swallows back the impulse to comment on it. If J doesn't move in, then S suspects they'll still spend a lot of nights together anyway, so it's likely still true enough. Instead, finishing with the soap, he considers it and the washcloth for a moment, offering both to J. "Do you need these?"

There's still a part of J that wants to argue that, even as he nods and takes what S offers, starting to wash up. They can do better going forward; they can make new memories, try to fix what went wrong before. But he's not sure they can make up for any of it, exactly. They get more chances now, hopefully, but none of it will undo all they missed and all the terrible things he did.

But they can try, he tells himself. At least, they can make an effort to make up for all the time they missed with each other. His crimes are his own. But this is theirs. It's not easy to bite his tongue, or even to admit to himself that he needs to. Where S is persistently hopeful, he's long had a tendency to refuse to be. He knows he wasn't always like that — stubborn, but not quite as much of a pessimist — and maybe that's what makes it hard to stay aware of it, that it doesn't align with how he once saw himself. If S can be more practical, though, he can at least try not to make things more difficult than they already are. He can't undo the fact that he was an incredibly terrible boyfriend for far too long there, but he can try to be a good one now. He knows he used to be. He can try to figure out how to be again.

So he measures out his response, taking time to get clean. "We are making up for it now," he says at last. He's painfully aware that this is going to be an uphill battle. As happy as S has made him this last while, he still knows he's had to push back against his own brain a lot to stay there, and it won't always be so manageable. As tired and overwhelmed as he is, he could easily have gone the other way or stayed in that miserable place. Right now, he can honestly say he's doing well, but he knows that isn't enough. It doesn't guarantee anything, not even tomorrow. But they're still trying. That's worth something.

He shakes his head, glancing back over at S. He wants to say it plainly, to tell him that, in less than half a day, S has been his reason for dying and his reason for living both. As dramatic as he knows it would sound, it's true. Still, it's not worth focusing on the first part just now. "I'm happy," he says instead, sounding a little confused by it himself. "Happier than I've been in a long time. You make me happy. It's a pretty good start."

Immediately, S hates that it hurts to hear, that he doesn't quite believe it. J means it, he has no doubt of that much. He just isn't sure how true it can be that he makes J happy when he hasn't seemed to do that in a long time. More often, his presence has seemed to make J all the more miserable and anxious and insecure. Even now, with J so sweet, and his happiness something that S is so fucking grateful for, especially after earlier, he has to push back against a flicker of doubt, a worry that he might not be good for J. That can't be true. They're here now, in spite of all possible odds and reasons they shouldn't be; everything he's been thinking the past few minutes still stands. He still believes that they're better off together than apart, too, and recent history seems to back that idea up. Right now, it is a good start. Still, he knows it won't be easy, knows how much they'll have to overcome, and just to consider that he might make things worse again just by being with J cuts deep, maybe all the more so for how at odds it seems with this past while.

He tries, but he can't quite hide that bit of sadness in his expression. S briefly steps closer to steal another quick kiss instead, hoping that might help mask it, or at least make sure it doesn't get misinterpreted. "I missed making you happy, too," he says by way of explanation, as close as he can get to that particular truth, at least for the moment. "I wasn't sure I still could." At least it feels more important than ever right now to be able to help in some way. He doesn't want to think about what might have happened if J had shown up here alone, or even if someone else had found him first, someone who might not have been able to try to coax him back to a place of relative calm. This, everything that's happened since, is just a magnificent bonus, something he wouldn't have let himself expect even if he imagined J arriving here at all but for which he's overwhelmingly appreciative. They'll get it right this time, he tells himself. They can try, at least, and he thinks they stand a better chance of it now, everything stripped away and leaving just the two of them, knowing each other even better than they could have before after all they've been through.

"I'm glad you are," he adds, not wanting to leave that unaddressed, though he suspects it's probably apparent what an understatement that is, despite how bittersweet he still sounds. There are, after all, plenty of reasons for J not to be happy. "And it is. A good start."

Though that sends a flicker of guilt through J, at least it's a small one, one he can handle. It isn't like it's new, and feeling bad for not being someone who can simply cheer up or get over things isn't as difficult to bear as all the other reasons he has to feel guilt and shame now. In relation to everything else, this is manageable, even a relief in that respect.

He pulls away just long enough to set the washcloth down again, deciding that he's done enough for now. Better to pull S close for another kiss. In a moment, they'll need to get out, and he's looking forward to that. Right now, though, he feels the need to be close. He doesn't know where to begin, how to tell S what he really thinks and feels. He's too tired to sort it out adequately himself, never mind find the words to express it. Still, he has to try. "It wasn't your fault," he says softly. "And it won't be. I'm the one who's..." He sighs and shrugs. There aren't really any words for what he is, and certainly none he wants to use now, when things are so peaceful, in spite of the soft melancholy arising between them. "It's something wrong with me. You... no one has ever made me as happy as you do."

It's hard to say and still meet S's eyes. He forces himself to do so, wants S to know he means it. There's something horribly wrong with him. Even now, when he feels better than he has since well before he left, he knows that to be true. Maybe some of the things S said and did didn't help, but he didn't turn J into whatever this is. All that time he wasted, all the reasons he gave S to doubt them, those are on him. He can't let S fault himself for it in the least, not without saying something.

Again, S knows that J must mean what he's saying, and again, S knows that it can't be true. He tried, so hard and so often, but mostly he just seemed to make things worse, either in his attempts to lift J's spirits or simply by existing. Even now, it's hard to tell if he was never enough or if he was always too much or if he was somehow both at once, but if he ever did make J happy, he knows it must have been a long time ago. And maybe J would have been unhappy anyway, the root of his problems something that would have taken hold whether S was there or not. It isn't as if being apart did either of them any good. But his being there didn't seem to help anything, either. This past day, these last couple hours or so, he feels like maybe he might have, but he can't guarantee that will stay the case. All he can do is hope, perhaps selfishly, not wanting to lose J yet again when they have this impossible chance to try again ahead of them, that it will, and attempt to get things right this time.

"I made you miserable," he counters with a sad little smile, just barely fighting the impulse to look away. He probably shouldn't say even that much, worried that he'll make it a self-fulfilling prophecy by doing so, but he can't pretend it isn't true. J has told him so often enough. The last thing he wants, though, is to ruin this when J has just said that he's happy, happier than he's been in a long time, so he swallows against this current surge of emotions, resting his hands against J's cheeks as he leans in to kiss him once more, chaste but lingering. "But I'll try not to this time."

It's not enough, or he fears it won't be. It wasn't before. S has to remind himself, impossible to lose sight of though it's been anyway, that things are different now, that they're meeting on more even ground, each more aware of who the other is and how much they don't want to lose this. Whatever it takes, he means to fight for this. Surely, he thinks, how much they love each other has to count for something here. If they could weather everything that's brought them to where they are now, then they must stand a chance.

It's true and it isn't, both at once. J has tried, over and again, to figure out what went wrong, how he changed, when, why. It's only ever made it worse, being unable to determine what's wrong with him, despite coming up with a long list of things, never able to find a solution. It's not like S changed, not in any manner significant enough to warrant the way he changed. They grew as they got older, but S never became someone else. He did.

He wants so badly to understand it. Afraid though he is that there's no answer other than that some awful monster always lived inside him, gradually shedding his skin until it was all that remained, he needs to know. It's the only way to know if he can change it. Right now, all he knows for sure is that he hates who he's become, and that it's much easier to bear that person now than it was earlier today.

He's really not sure how to explain that. It's hard to find the words, and he ends up frowning, stepping past S to turn off the water. They can't just stand here for whatever this is until the water turns cold, and they're done anyway. "Towels," he says, wrapping his arms around himself, because he can already feel the difference in the air temperature. "I was already miserable. You didn't make me miserable. Anything would have made it worse. Being without you made it worse, too."

That he uses the past tense bothers him, when he knows it isn't really accurate. These things are still wrong with him. He still doesn't know how to fix it or even how to have a steady mood over the course of a single day. He doesn't know how to predict what will or won't bother him in the next instant. It takes all his strength of will, all his focus, to fight off the darkness that threatens to overtake him at any given moment. The only things that work are music and S, and he doesn't have music now. And S is inconsistent, through no fault of his own. There's just too much bound up in their story for that not to be the case.

"Besides," he says, shivering a little, "I'd rather be miserable with you than without you. I know that now."

Edited 2021-01-09 07:20 (UTC)

S still isn't sure he believes that — the first part, anyway — but now doesn't seem like the time to fight it. Already he fears that they're losing their grip on the contented peace they had just a few moments ago, and that, if they are, it's his own fault for stating the obvious, for not being able to let what J said stand on its own, just proving the point he was making in the first place. This time, at least he has enough sense not to say anything. The last thing J says helps on that front. That much, S can believe. He wishes J weren't miserable at all, and thinks it can't be right that he could love this man so much and not be able to do anything to counter all of that unhappiness, but he does still believe that they're better off together than apart. Being alone didn't do either of them any good. At least this way, they can try to work through it, to get right what they didn't before. Despite the slight unhappiness that's started creeping back in, he still thinks they're off to a good start in that regard, and he hopes he hasn't shattered it too soon.

"I'm sorry," he says, glancing over at J as he steps out of the shower, reaching for two towels on the shelf that holds them. These are the last of them, another thing he'll have to get more of later if he's going to have J here for any significant amount of time. "I shouldn't have said that. You were just talking about being happy."

Taking a deep breath, he shakes his head a little at himself, holding out one towel while he somewhat clumsily, one-handed, wraps the other around his waist. Even with the steam in the bathroom, he's already starting to shiver, too, the wet fabric of his shirt clinging to his chest and arms. He really will be glad to change out of it, checking to make sure J is with him as he steps out into the hall again. He has to try to fix this before it unravels too far, one corner of his mouth hesitantly twitching up. "I'd rather have you with me, too. Maybe that's selfish, but..." Trailing off, he shrugs. "I just don't want to be the reason you feel like that."

J wraps the towel around himself hurriedly, following after S. The sooner they get dry and dressed, the better. A conversation like this is hard enough to have without doing so naked and shivering. He's not even sure how to respond; there are too many things he wants to say, so many points he could make. Finding a way to make it make sense, to put it into words, is increasingly difficult. Still, maybe this is good. Even exhausted, he feels far better now than he has in months. Maybe he can handle this without falling apart or lashing out.

"That's not how it works," he says. "I make you feel terrible sometimes." As much as he wishes they could stay like this, comfortable and calm and at peace, happy, he knows that isn't true. It isn't as if S has lived such a perfect life that he doesn't know this, too. J just wishes he could get him to live that way, aware they can do both. At some point, things will unravel. Pretending that won't happen is just going to make it worse when it does. "And sometimes the things you do upset me, too. We have to be able to say so."

It sparks another thought, one he hasn't entirely thought through, but which feels worth saying. He quickens his pace to get in front of S, turning to face him, one hand clutching at his towel as the other reaches for S's arm. "I didn't want to hurt you, so I just hurt you more. You want me to tell you if I'm hurting. I didn't know how. I'm going to try, but you won't always like it. And you have to tell me when I'm wrong too."

There were too many secrets at the end, too many impulses and feelings he felt he had to bury until he couldn't keep them down anymore and they sharpened into weapons he couldn't stop. If he's going to get this right, he can't do that anymore. It isn't that easy, he knows it; it's going to take time to learn how to let himself say things honestly before he can't help saying them cruelly. But if he has to dance around things, worrying his pain will hurt S's feelings, he'll never learn how. "Please," he says, hurt and hopeful all at once, already feeling guilty for saying any of this at all. "You aren't why I'm like this. I don't know why I'm like this and I hate it. But we're both going to get things wrong. You have to be okay with that. Or accept it, at least."

It's hypocritical, he knows, when he also knows he'll beat himself up for every mistake he makes, but he can't bear for S to do the same. If nothing else, it makes it hard to be open with him, and they need honesty to survive this.

It's a lot to take in all at once, not least while dripping wet and cold, half-dressed in the middle of his hallway. He really needs to get out of this shirt, something he's all the more aware of now that they're not in the shower anymore, but hearing J out is all the more important. So S listens, he waits, his expression serious as he glances down at J's hand against his arm, grateful for the contact even now. Everything still feels so fraught, so delicate, overwhelming happiness and relief tempered by the need to tread cautiously. They have a chance to get this right when that should never have been possible, death a rather insurmountable obstacle, never mind their own messy history. He doesn't want to waste it, doesn't want to misstep, not least when he's so afraid of J falling back into the state he was in earlier.

J is right, though, and he knows it. S even thought the same earlier, asking exactly that of J, knowing that they won't be able to do this if they can't have those conversations. Of course, he also knows it won't be as simple as just saying they will, when his instinct is still going to be to try to protect J, especially now, at first, in the aftermath of what he did to himself and what he meant to do again. There isn't any possible way that S could bear it if he was somehow responsible for J tipping back to that again. Even that will probably be tenable only for so long, when he also knows that he can't spend every second of every day fearful that J might hurt himself again, but while this is all still so fragile, a little more caution is required. That still doesn't mean he can't try. And trying in itself has to mean acknowledging the possibility that he won't always succeed, won't always get it right. If they're going to be able to make this work, they have to be able to survive that — both as a couple and in the more literal, physical sense.

Of course, thinking about that — the need to be honest with each other — makes him feel newly guilty all over again, thinking fleetingly of bigger secrets he's kept, that he's had to keep, but that's different. He also isn't sure he needs to keep them anymore, but now isn't the time to start contemplating that, and it definitely isn't the time to get into it with J. Just this is enough of a step, hard to hear but in a way that he knows must be good. They're trying. If they aren't immediately falling back into all of their old patterns with each other, that has to be a positive sign.

"Okay," S says after a long moment, his voice soft and solemn. He looks down at the floor, but briefly, turning his gaze towards J again soon after. While he's still not even sure this is enough, or that he was so wrong before, when for so long, it seemed like just his existence made J resent him, it's a start, and something he knows he has to agree to for both of their sakes. Careful as he wants to be, they won't have any kind of relationship if all he does is guard J's feelings and worry that everything he says or does will be wrong. "No, you're right. We are, and... I do." He pauses a moment, nods to himself. "I'll try, too. I can't... promise that I'll..." He sighs to himself, pulling a face as he considers his words. "I'm still going to want to look out for you. I can't help that. But I do want to know that, and I'll... work on being better at hearing it. And at telling you, too."

It takes a moment for J even to process that S is agreeing. He's so ready to become defensive, a faint buzz of the old argumentative instinct hovering at the back of his mind, half-expecting S to disagree. He doesn't even know why or in what way, just that he has this horrible gut-level belief that being honest is just going to hurt S or upset him, if only because J can't ever get these things right.

Once he realizes, though, it's a visible relief as he heaves a sigh, shoulders slumping. It isn't going to be easy, he knows that. It's hard for him to fight off his fears and anxieties, and they tend to get in the way of his speaking up in the ways he should, digging his heels in on things that don't matter, letting important things sit until he snaps. But it'll be a lot easier if S holds up his end of things and does as he's saying now.

"Thank you," he says, a little shaky, more worked up from saying anything than he'd thought, though it might also be the combination of cold and fatigue. There's so, so much else he could tell S, a part of him wanting to let all of it spill out of him now that he's talking. He has some measure of sense still left in him. If anything, in fact, he thinks it's being here with S that's awoken any sense he might still have. It's enough, at least, for him to know that, whatever things he needs to say, they can wait for now. He won't be able to articulate them properly now, and he's far too wound up for it right now. He needs time to rest so he can be alert, so he can be better at wording things. For now, though, this is enough.

Lifting his hand to S's cheek, he steps closer, tips his head up for a soft kiss. "I will too," he says, a quiet promise. "I'll try... to tell you things. Before they get worse. To be honest." He doesn't even like admitting that he wasn't before, though he thinks they both know that anyway. It would be foolish to pretend he was entirely truthful or open back then. Taking another slow, deep breath, he musters up a small smile. "I like that, though. That you want to look out for me. Not always, I know, it's... complicated. But right now... I really want that." Admitting that now, his voice goes smaller, self-conscious. When he's been so horrible about it in the past, it's hard to explain how there's still part of him that likes that S takes care of him. Later, maybe, he'll have to try. For now, he hopes that will be enough.

Again, S feels that slight pulse of guilt; again, he makes himself dismiss it. They've come so far already, he thinks, in such a short time, so much of what they've said to each other today conversations that they should have had ages ago. It's weighty enough without him making it worse. Like he said, he's always going to want to look out for J, and this is that, the truths he's held back ones that wouldn't help either of them right now, that will still be true if he saves them for another, steadier time. J seems like he's barely managed to get all of this out, and S cannot pile anything else onto that right now. He just nods instead, resting his hand over the one of J's pressed to his cheek even as he shivers.

They're ridiculous, probably, but he's not so sure that's a bad thing in itself. To have talked through so much while showering and now while standing here half-dressed and cold rather than putting it off — well, it might be because today has just been strange from beginning to end, but all the same, needing to get all of this out, making a point of saying it now, might just be a good sign. That, or maybe he's just too optimistic still, primed to read anything as positive because he wants so much for it to be, but even so, this feels different now. They're the same but they're not. The things that brought them together before are still there, but they know each other even better now than they did then, he thinks, and they're at least trying not to repeat the same steps that led to their relationship ending before. If he thinks about it too much, S knows he could drive himself crazy wondering if that still won't be enough, when he tried before but still couldn't get J to stay, but it isn't worth letting himself go down that road, either, at least not right now. Trying doesn't have to mean getting it right immediately, anyway. He's always told J that about the piano, but this time, he thinks it's advice that he needs for himself as well.

"Well, good," he says, soft, his smile a little more natural and a little less melancholy this time. "Because I would have wanted to do that anyway." Especially now, he would, but he thinks that will probably be understood without his having to specify it outright. With everything J has been through, with what J wanted to do earlier today, there's no way S could have turned off that instinct to look out for J, to take care of him.

In the interest of doing as he's said he will, he doesn't harp on that part of things now. "I meant it, a minute ago," he says instead. "I really want to get it right this time. Whatever it takes."

Today has been so overwhelming, one of the worst days of J's life and, too, somehow one of the best. It's hard enough for him to keep his emotions and thoughts even vaguely steady on a somewhat ordinary day. Opening up about his feelings isn't hard for him exactly. It's the consequences of doing so that unnerve him. He didn't entirely mean to blurt out all of that for precisely that reason. It's not that S doesn't get things wrong. It's not that he does either. It's that it's so painfully hard to look him in the eye and tell him that something he's doing isn't working, knowing how badly he wants to get it right. It's facing the pain that flickers across the face that J loves so much, and knowing it's his own fault, that S wouldn't have to feel bad if he didn't tell him or if J were a better person, someone who could just be better, someone who'd see the person he loves trying to help him and actually just... be helped. It isn't that S can't fix him that bothers him, as much as he'd like for it to be that simple. It's that his being too broken for S to fix leaves him sick with guilt on top of everything else.

Eventually, he's going to have to put that into words. He knows that. Right now, though, he's just relieved. It's a start, more of one than he could have anticipated getting even under better circumstances, and S is taking it better than he imagined he might in any of the hundred times before when he tried to figure out how he could explain any of these things. He'd get too tripped up, though, on how to put it. Maybe it helps, being too tired to overthink it. Whether it's that or relief or what, he doesn't know, just knows he's a little dizzy with it.

"I know," he says, managing another little smile, thin but earnest. "Darling, I know. I do too." Now that he's talking, part of him just wants to keep going, to let everything flood out of him at last, all the pent up fears and pain. He's not sure, though, that he could get through even a fraction of it right now and keep himself in one piece. Mostly he just wants to hold onto this. They aren't happy, exactly, but they aren't sad either, more honest, he thinks, today than they have been in a long, long time.

Besides, he's far too aware that the towel doesn't cover him as much as he'd like — honestly, he wants to huddle under it like a blanket, but that isn't very practical either. With a little shiver, he lets out a shaky laugh. "You can start by taking care of getting me into clothes again." Pressing his lips into a line, more amused now than not, he pulls his hand back to wrap his arms around himself, though his expression softens again a moment later. "We'll get it right."

Hearing J say so, certain and not a question this time, helps soothe S's nerves a little. Usually he's the more optimistic of the two, and he believes that now, too — that they'll get it right, that they have to, that to have made it this far has to be a good sign — but J saying it, seeming to believe it, is all the more reassuring. Already they're doing better than they were when they were together before, as strange as that is after everything that's happened. J trying to kill him probably shouldn't have brought them closer together, but S knows so much more now than he did then, and if it's an odd place to be coming from, having read things that J never meant for anyone else to read, at least it's put them on the same page at last. If there's so much more he should say about that, S tells himself that it isn't contradicting what they've just decided to hold it back. It's just been such a long day already, and they've said so much, that there doesn't seem to be any reason to overwhelm J any further. Those things can wait. They'll still be there tomorrow, or the next day, or next week, or whenever it seems like a good time to broach those subjects; the two of them will still be here, too, or at least he hopes that's the case, hopes with everything in him that J trying to stay will be enough to keep him here. It seems like it might be more likely now than it was earlier today, and that counts for something.

"We will," he echoes, soft and sure in turn. He almost leans in to kiss J again then, but he shivers instead, hissing in a breath as he does, letting it out on a soft laugh. "Yes, clothes, okay. Dry clothes." He really needs to get out of this shirt, colder for being wrapped in wet fabric the longer they stand here. As much as he doesn't want to move, doesn't want to break this moment, he smiles a little apologetically and finally steps away again, heading back into the bedroom and to the dresser. He really doesn't have much in the way of clothes, again not thinking that they would be for more than one, but there should be enough, he thinks, to get the both of them clothed tonight and tomorrow. He'll have to do laundry then anyway, get the sheets and towels clean, and at some point go shopping again, pick up a few more things. Just thinking about all of that is a little strange, still. Building a life out of nothing isn't easy to do, even with a little money provided for him. At least now, though, he actually wants to do that, to make this a home for both of them even if J doesn't stay here like S hopes he will, to take care of him in any way he can.

He retrieves clothes for J to sleep in first, holding them out. Getting himself dressed is going to be a little trickier, at least more time-consuming with buttons to undo, so that seems better to do second. "Here," he says, and smiles a little. "Try to keep them on this time, will you? I don't have much else I can give you to wear."

This time, he feels better following S into the bedroom than when they first started down the hall a minute ago. It feels as if they've made some kind of actual progress, which is, in itself, surreal, given that one of the reasons J left was because he let himself believe they never would. Saying all he said left him a little nervous, but S has reacted far better than he thought he would — though, admittedly, that might be because he's already wound up today, ricocheting between being fine and expecting the worst. Right now, it's easier to be fine, to breathe easy.

Easy, even, to laugh at what S says as he takes the offered clothes. "I'll try," he says, "but I can't promise." Of course, he has no intention of getting undressed yet again. As much as he's enjoyed this, he's tired. Even if he doesn't sleep, he doubts he'd have the energy to go another round anyway. They'll have to figure out what to do about clothing tomorrow.

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to S's cheek, and steps away toward the bed, deliberately putting his back to S. As comfortable as he's gotten, he can't entirely forget why S is in that soaked shirt to begin with. It's not something he can let himself think about much, but he's alert enough to know he can't watch S change. If he does, he doesn't know if he'd be able to make himself look away, if he'd just fall apart. It's better to focus on getting dressed instead, drying off quickly before pulling on the clothes he's been given. With the bed in front of him, he shakes his head and runs the towel over his hair. "We really made a mess." He's not looking forward to cleaning this up. He was never very good about remembering to keep the bed made anyway, less so in S's absence. Making it now when he sort of just wants to collapse is less than appealing, but, he supposes, better than the alternative.

S is about to ask J to give him a minute, the question poised on the tip of his tongue, when J turns around anyway, making it all S can do to keep his exhale of relief from being audible. It isn't as if he thought that J would forget about this particular hurdle — wearing a button-down shirt in the shower is kind of a difficult thing to lose sight of — but he still doesn't want to draw any more attention to it than he has to. At least this way, he doesn't have to say it. Just to be safe, he turns, too, facing the dresser as he carefully undoes the buttons, letting the wet shirt fall to the floor, at least for the moment, when he's finished. He lets his face fall, too, glancing down to look at the scars on his chest — familiar to him now, after all these months — and allowing himself just a moment to be quietly devastated that J can't stand the sight of him. S knows why that's the case, and he knows it's not his own fault that he looks like this now, his body a permanent reminder of what J did to him. Knowing doesn't prevent it from hurting, and from worrying, similarly briefly, that it will be too much of a problem. They were able to work around it today, but these solutions aren't permanent ones, and he remembers too well how J reacted before, how that was what tipped them back into such a miserable state, leading to J talking about killing himself again. He can't risk them winding up there again, but he also doesn't know how they can stay together for any length of time and ensure that J doesn't see him shirtless.

Now isn't the time to try to figure it out, though. They're both tired, J probably far more so than he is himself, and they've dealt with so much already today. For now, he can dress like this and try not to make too much of it. They can work out another way of dealing with it later. So S takes a deep breath and keeps going, drying himself off before he dresses, still cold but at least a little less so once he's clothed again, wearing ones he bought to sleep in even though he has no intention of actually sleeping. If he's going to lie in bed awake, he might as well be comfortable while he does so.

"It was worth it," he says when he turns again, picking up his towel and shirt, then moving to retrieve the other various clothes they discarded earlier so he can put them all in the laundry basket to be washed tomorrow. He smiles a little as he does, almost gently teasing, except for the fact that it's just true. Even if he didn't have an extra set of sheets, though he's very glad he does, it would have been worth the sex they had to have to make do and sleep on a bed without bedding. Careful, he starts pulling the sheets off. "Help me with these, I'll put them with the rest of the laundry."