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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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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."

Once S approaches and starts pulling at the sheets, it occurs to J that he could have just done that on his own, or at least started the process. He's increasingly aware, though, of his exhaustion, now that he's somewhat dry and dressed, out of the relaxing warmth of the shower, away from the exhilaration of sex. At least he has S to remind him again that it's a good idea to clean up once in a while, though doing so for this reason wasn't much of a concern these last few months.

It's a good reason to be tired, better than the long list of others he has. Stepping forward, he starts from the other side of the bed, tugging the sheets out from under the mattress. "Very worth it," he agrees, glancing over at S with a small smile. For that matter, as annoying as making a bed is, he's looking forward to the end result — clean clothes, clean sheets, clean body tucked against S's, hopefully getting some sleep. It's been so long, he's not sure he actually remembers how it feels to be rested. Grabbing the bundled sheets to take over to the laundry basket, he shakes his head.

"But I will try to stay clothed," he adds, sighing dramatically, as though this were an incredibly serious concession on his part. "At least until you have more sheets. Where are the clean ones?" The sooner they get this bed made, the sooner they can get close again, not distanced by the necessity of chores. As good as the sex was, as important as the conversations have been, J finds himself longing just to get into bed again. It's not even about sleeping, though that would be nice, or kissing, though he likes that, too. Mostly he just badly wants S to hold him — just to lie in each other's arms, to feel safe and loved. He's missed that as much as the rest of it, the comfort of just being close to S for no reason other than to be close.

Though he'd already been thinking about being glad to have another set of sheets they can put on the bed, S is slightly surprised by the question, and has to stop to consider his answer. Neat though he might generally be — far more so than J usually is, at least in his experience — he's also had an apartment to fill, one that was empty when he got here save for furniture and a few appliances. Keeping track of where he put his few purchases is a little difficult in light of that, though it only takes a moment before he places it. "In the closet," he says, gesturing in its direction. "On the overhead shelf. They're not open yet." It's only been days, after all. He didn't think he would need to change them again so soon.

Again, he thinks that it's more than worth it to have to do so with what he got in return, even if he would much rather be in bed, off his feet and with J in his arms, than having to make the bed. Even this is sort of nice, though, actually. Even in an apartment he's barely lived in, even with as long as it's been since the two of them were together like this, it feels pleasantly, domestically familiar to be doing simple tasks like this, like falling into an old rhythm, and this time a welcome one. They can't be what they were before, but some parts of it have to be okay. They were good together for a while. There's a strong foundation there to build on; there has to be, he thinks, or they wouldn't have wound up like this again.

"I need more sheets and more clothes," he adds with a soft laugh, shaking his head a little at the pair of them. Figuring that J will get the package of sheets, S starts taking the pillows off the bed, and on a whim, removing the pillowcases to put those in the laundry, too. It shouldn't take too much longer to put on the fresh ones, so really he just might as well. "If you stay here for any length of time, I know you're just going to keep stealing mine."

That much is deliberate — another implicit invitation, but trying to make clear, too, that he doesn't just expect J to stay.

Pulling the sheets down in their plastic wrapping means having his back to S again, which J appreciates — just enough space to give him a moment to take that in. The words are so casual, but that in itself is remarkable to him, a far cry from before — was it really just today? There's no demand there, no sense that S expects anything that isn't obvious. They've been doing well so far, J thinks, in spite of their past and his breakdowns, and there's going to be a learning curve here. To have S speak like this so soon is unexpected, not because J didn't think he could be more patient, more considerate, but because he can hear the effort being made. It should be such a small thing, to be given the option of space, or at least not to have it expected he'll stay for long or for S to try and convince him of anything. It isn't, though. It means more than he can entirely parse even for himself.

Unwrapping the plastic, he looks back at S with a smile, fond and faintly grateful, before he turns to head back to S's side. "Of course I am," he says, something almost cheerful creeping into his voice as he leans up, a hand settling briefly at S's waist while he kisses his cheek. "I don't have any clean clothes of my own." He sets the pillowcases and a sheet on the dresser, holding out the fitted sheet to S so he can take a side of it. Moving to tuck the sheet into place, he pulls a face — pouts, really, though he'd never call it that. "They don't smell like you yet though." That was always the best part of borrowing S's clothes, walking around clothed in his scent, so soft and familiar he hardly even noticed it, content just to know it was there.

There, he tells himself, something to add to a list he didn't know he was starting to keep. If he doesn't try as hard as he promised, he won't stay alive long enough to steal shirts from S that smell like him, everything still too new.

He's cute like this, S thinks. The thought feels a little absurd after everything, and when they keep swinging back and forth between more serious moods and lighter ones, but if anything, that makes him all the more aware of it now. J is smiling, almost teasing, and then he's pouting, and it's absolutely endearing, S smiling in turn before he's even aware of doing so. It almost feels a little like before, except that before, he didn't have any reason to so thoroughly appreciate menial tasks like this, even the simple act of making a bed strangely enjoyable right now. Then again, that at least sort of makes sense when it was just days ago that he was doing the same thing alone, frustrated by the difficulty in doing something so basic, the exertion in it — somewhat embarrassingly — probably the most he'd had in a long time.

That isn't the case anymore, for the best possible reason, and while S knows he should likely have been a little more careful today, he feels alright so far, he doesn't think he's overdone it. Despite what they've just discussed, what he agreed to do, he feels like he shouldn't mention it, for much the same reason that he kept his shirt on in the shower and his back turned while he got changed. Even without it being visible, it isn't worth the risk of drawing J's attention to the effects of what he did. That's something else better saved for later — impossible to avoid, really, but unnecessary right now, especially when the mood feels so warm and light again, J's expression coaxing a slight laugh out of S.

"They will eventually," he says, not adding, too, that he hopes J will still be here then. He said he'd try, not that he'd stay, and S doesn't want to drive himself crazy or make himself as miserable and frightened again as he was earlier, but he can't altogether lose sight of that, either. Tucking the corners of the fitted sheet around the mattress, he still has a crooked smile on his face when he looks up again. "You need clothes, too. At least some that you won't just be stealing from me."

Even if asked, J wouldn't know how to describe the way S's clothes used to smell, anymore than he could tell someone what the studio smelled like. All he knows for sure is that both place and clothes carried the scent of home, something familiar to return to. No residence ever smells quite the same as the last one, but this one will become home, too, he hopes. In time, if he manages to last that long, this will belong to them, not just in name but in feel. It's a small, subtle thing to look forward to, but now that he's caught himself tucking these things away, he adds that to the pile. Not wanting to leave S to deal with the mess goes on there, too, along with not wanting to lose this. It feels so good just to make the bed and watch S laugh. He's so beautiful, J's heart aches with the warmth of it.

"I do," he agrees. The ones he arrived here in might be salvageable, but he doubts it. He's not sure he'll want to wear them again anyway. Still, the idea of having to do these mundane, practical things is annoying. He doesn't want to go out and be around people, still too raw to handle anyone but S, never mind have to be around them for long hours. He's not even sure what kind of job he can hold. Figuring out how to bring this up to S bothers him, and he's not ready to do so, but steeling himself anyway, when he remembers something S said. "There's money, right? You said money and a place and... a map?"

It's a relief, his expression relaxing again as he moves to get the other sheet, again handing one side to S. At least it means he won't have to work yet. He's not sure he's steady enough for that.

Not for the first time today, S thinks that he's gone about this all wrong. The way he had this place explained to him was much more to the point, at least as much so as anything so downright impossible could be, whereas he's offered J information only in bits and pieces, probably leaving out important details, forgetting the oddness of all of it and then remembering again. Really, he knows he couldn't have done other than he did. There were much bigger things at hand when he first spotted J on the sidewalk, and the time that's passed since then has been emotional to say the least. Still, there's a lot he ought to be clearer on. As much as he would like to just have J stay here, to take care of him for a while, and for all that he knows he will likely try to insist on at least the next few days, he doesn't get to make that decision, can't force J to see it the way he does. It didn't exactly go well the last time he intervened like that, after all, and he won't risk doing more harm than good here.

"Some," he says, nodding, as he takes the other side of the flat sheet, laying it carefully over the fitted one. "Not a lot, but...enough to get started." He's worked out the numbers, or at least tried to. It should be possible to pay rent and still afford essentials like food before he gets a job, but barely, without much room for anything else. And although he doesn't want to say so, certain that it would come out wrong or be taken wrong or, most likely, both, he finds it hard to imagine J getting and holding down a job under these current circumstances, with all he's been through recently. Despite all the reasons it would be incredibly insensible, S still thinks it would just be smarter for J to stay here, if only because there's really no reason for them both to have to spend most of their money on rent.

He holds that back, focuses instead on what J has actually said. "Some other things, too. A bank account, a mailbox key, an ID. It's... I don't know how to explain it. No one does."

The whole thing makes J uneasy, but it's better, he supposes, than the alternatives. He could have shown up here with nothing. He could have not shown up at all, left S all alone here. It's all deeply strange, but he's here for now, so he may as well just accept it. None of that can be odder, after all, than his being alive at all. He killed himself, what, three hours ago or less, and he's making a bed. Simply having a bank account is almost normal by comparison.

"Enough to get clothes then." S has clothes and such, so that must be so. He huffs and shakes his head. "And help get another set of sheets at least." With the bed made, he stares at it for a moment, trying to gauge why it doesn't look quite right, before he realizes they need the pillowcases. Stepping back toward S, he grabs one and a pillow. Staying here is the practical thing to do, he knows that, but still he isn't sure.

"It's overwhelming," he admits. "I don't know... what I can do. How I can work. What work I can do." There's little he's qualified for, less he thinks he can handle in terms of hours and being around other people. He's lucid enough, in spite of the fatigue, to know he isn't stable, and it's frustrating not to be able to do anything about that. It also means he's not sure he should be around people.

It's so hard not to just say it. To S, it seems like the most practical solution here, for them to live together and share expenses. J wouldn't have to work until he feels ready to; they wouldn't both be just barely making ends meet and probably still spending most of their time together anyway. Already, though, S thinks he's made clear that he wants that, that he'd want it even if it weren't for those purely sensible reasons, and the idea of offering it again now feels like it would run the risk of pushing too hard for something that J might not want. He can't risk it backfiring, making J less inclined to stay than more. Content a mood as they might have settled back into, for the most part, he knows it's still fragile, and it isn't worth disrupting that.

"I haven't figured out what I can do yet, either," he offers instead, taking the other pillowcase so he can put it on the second pillow. Whether or not it will be helpful, he doesn't know — as soon as the words have left his mouth, he has to bite back an instinctive wince out of fear that they won't be — but it's true all the same. Granted, the reasons for it are different, but his options are more limited now than they once were. That much, he won't say, but even so, it's been strange starting from scratch, and he can only imagine how much more so it must be for J, who earlier today was fully intending not to have any sort of future to plan at all.

Setting the pillow back on the mattress, he crosses to the foot of the bed to pick up the discarded comforter and pull it back up, taking a breath that he just barely manages not to let out as a sigh. "I think you'd probably be alright for a while without working. In terms of money, I mean."