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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The last few months they were together are, admittedly, something of a blur for J. Everything was so overwhelming, and he was so unpredictably veering between volatile and numb, that it's hard for him to remember a lot of it. But he remembers the pain and the anger, and he remembers fights, and he remembers saying terrible things. He remembers not liking himself at all, sometimes not liking S either.

It's the anger that scares him. It was anger and despair that sent him over the edge earlier, a wounded animal instinct that led him to pick up the knife without thinking. They fought so much. He fought, really, and S tried to calm him down, but if it's like that again, what's to stop that same awful impulse from kicking in? What would keep him from lashing out physically instead of just with his words? S is trying so hard here and it means so much, but J doesn't know yet if he'll be able to do the same. He's trying. But what seems feasible today might be impossible tomorrow.

"I know," he says, soft, arms slipping around S's waist. "That you'd like it. And that I'm too dramatic." He sighs, though he's trying, mostly, to laugh at himself in doing so, rolling his eyes. It's just, for once, he feels like maybe he's the right amount of dramatic. It's not like attempted murder is such a small hurdle in a relationship. That S still trusts him is at once bewildering and a relief; he certainly doesn't trust himself. "I'd like it, too."

He bites his lip, gaze lowered as he weighs his words. It's probably better for him not to be alone yet anyway. If he starts to feel himself veering toward disaster once again, he can leave. And maybe a little time will help him determine if he can justify staying longer. He doesn't want to get S's hopes up, but it's what he wants, too, this time. "I'd like to try," he says finally, glancing up again. "For a few days, just to see if... if it feels safe."

Edited 2021-01-11 08:04 (UTC)

It's probably the smart response here. S has to remind himself, too, that as strange as it is, what he's had months to consider and try to come to terms with, J has had hardly any time with at all. Of course, of the two of them, he would be more afraid that the same might happen again. For his own part, S thinks again that there must be something seriously wrong with him, to feel so safe standing so close to someone who tried to kill him, but in a strange way, the fact that J is so worried makes him feel all the more settled in that trust. If J did want to hurt him, he wouldn't be so concerned that he might. That this time, there won't be anyone telling him to do so can only help, too. S considers saying that — that he knows J wasn't acting alone and wouldn't have done what he did without someone else acting as the guiding force, the idea behind the whole thing — but that's a truth that's too close to too many others, a road that, once they go down, he isn't sure they'll be able to turn back from. Discussing the finer points of what drove J to commit murders, to try to kill him, is a conversation best saved for another time, when J is steadier and more rested, when everything doesn't still feel so delicate.

And this is good, it's something; it's enough, at least for right now, what he already hoped would be the case. If J is already agreeing to stay for a few days, then S doesn't need to press that matter in the name of keeping an eye on him. He still feels a little guilty for not admitting that he wants to, that that's at least part of his rationale here, but it's part of the same thing, really, wanting to protect J as much as he still can. There's no way to take back any of the things J has done or clear his conscience, but S can, at least, try to make moving forward a little easier.

"Alright," he agrees with a slight nod, smoothing his hand over J's hair. If it doesn't work, if J doesn't trust himself, then the apartment that will be waiting for him will still be there, the first month's rent already covered. If it does, they'll have plenty of time to make sure they feel steady enough to go through with ending the lease. "A few days, and then you can see how you feel." For just a moment, he pauses, considering what he expects J might say to that, what he said earlier. "How we both feel."

S has no doubt, really, that he'll feel as he does now. It would take something he sees as being very unlikely to change that. Still, he knows he can't hold it back if he does come to feel unsafe, and that J wouldn't want him to. Making sure J knows that he won't pretend to be alright with this if he isn't seems important.

J closes his eyes, leaning readily into S's touch. For months, he told himself he was better off alone — that they were both better off with him on his own. He fought hard to believe it. It's hard not to think now that he should have been trying to fight other battles in himself. All the same, these are the things he forgot he needed, the little gestures, the soft touches, the gentle looks and words. He forgot there was a time when S brought him peace instead of guilt.

He's still worried, of course, a perpetual thrum of anxiety wound round the core of his being, but it fades a little again, back into the background. At least they can agree on this. At least S seems to understand. Opening his eyes again, he leans in to give S a kiss, lingering but soft. "Thank you," he murmurs, pulling away just a little. As ever, he thinks, S seems so much more certain of what's ahead than J can make himself be, but at least he's allowing room to be wrong, considering the possibility that J might not be able to handle staying. He hopes badly that he can. After so long on his own, he knows he was wrong before, that he isn't better off by himself — that, if anything, he's more of a danger that way, unchecked. He'd just rather be a danger to himself than to S.

Ideally, he'll be neither, but he knows being on his own now would be a bad idea. By himself, it's far too easy to get worked up, to let the guilt and shame overwhelm him, or else to make rash and terrible decisions.

There's nothing to be done, though, but to try. Right now that means doing his best to push such thoughts aside and to focus instead on the man in his arms. He tips his head back to give S a small smile, softer than a few minutes ago, but full of affection. "I just have to be sure," he says. "I love you so much."

Although he wouldn't be able to explain it if he tried, can't really even make sense of it for himself, S thinks that, in some ways, he didn't realize just how much he loved J until he lost him. He always loved him, always, overwhelmingly, often painfully, enough to put up with all the shit that happened before J left and to keep him hanging on for months afterwards without so much as a word. Still, he hadn't known that a person could still love someone after learning they'd done the kind of things J did, after being almost murdered by them. His feelings never faltered, though; if anything, they only grew with grief, for knowing that he would never get back the man he loved, for finding out all that J was dealing with through those months alone. If that wasn't enough to shake it, S knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that nothing ever could be.

To have this fresh chance now — it could easily overwhelm him again if he let it. He's calm now, and he doesn't want to go down that road again, not now, but he can still feel all those emotions just under the surface, the way his chest constricts when J says he loves him, despite how many times they've both said so today. Just in that regard alone, there's so much lost time to make up for. He should have said it as often as he could. It wouldn't have changed anything, probably — he knows why J chose him as a victim, or at least how the idea came to be planted in his head — but all the same, he regrets a little bit now that he didn't take every possible opportunity to give voice to what's been the steadiest constant in his whole life.

He can do so now, though, returning J's soft smile with one of his own. "I love you, too," he says, fingers combing absently through J's hair now. "It's a good idea, I think. You can be sure, and then we can... go from there."

A few days can be a long time. Sometimes it's nothing all, flying by in an instant. There were times when J wouldn't have known what day it was at all without seeing a newspaper or writing in his journal, unsure how many passed in a fog. There were others when they dragged on ceaselessly, minutes and years interchangeable. He hopes it's enough now, time enough to find some measure of calm, some hope. He's not sure peace in a broader sense is possible for him, but peace between them he wants. Just being here with S is as steady as he's felt in a long time. If he can just hold onto that, maybe he can stay here, and they'll both feel better for it.

He makes a small noise of agreement, expression warm. It helps to take things a step at a time. It helps to have something of a plan, too, though not one that's too mapped out, room to improvise. They can figure this out. It's easy to believe suddenly, maybe because S is listening to him, hearing him, or maybe just because S is playing with his hair and J is tired and the combination has him all but melting. "I like when you do that," he murmurs, eyes half closing. Little touches like that are so comforting for him, small enough not to feel invasive, persistent and tender enough to be a steady reminder he isn't alone. So many things he missed and he only halfway knew it, not always sure what exactly was missing, only that something was. Every time S called, he knew it still meant love, but it felt too much like guilt, too much like hurt and fear. He stopped processing the love in it fully, and he missed that, too, the time when he could just let himself be loved, when he could feel it.

He sighs, more contented than anything else. "Mm. We'll figure it out," he says. "Together." Tipping his head up, he gives S another soft kiss.

J says it like that, and S believes him utterly. He would have anyway, convinced as he is that this will be alright, that they'll be able to make it work, but it means that much more coming from J. Usually, at least in their more recent history, he's been the optimistic one of them, J more often the one filled with doubts and uncertainty. If he believes it, though, or even just is able to sound like he does, then S thinks they have to stand a good chance. They've already overcome what have to be the biggest obstacles that could keep any two people apart, anyway. There will still be more ahead of them, but being here now, safe and warm and loved in each other's arms, means they'll be able to face them. J died, and still somehow they found their way back to each other — through strange, impossible, inexplicable means, but all the same, S is just caught up enough in this to think that has to be significant. And if absolutely nothing else, it makes him that much more inclined to fight for them, to do whatever it takes to hold onto what they have now.

"We will," he agrees, soft and certain, keeping his fingers running gently through J's hair as he leans in for yet another kiss. It would be too easy just to spend half the night standing here like this, kissing between reassurances, every touch affectionate rather than heated. Really, they should just get in bed now that it's freshly made, since they can just continue this there while being even closer, but he lingers for a moment all the same, savoring this like he's tried to do so many other things today, forehead leaning against J's.

"Come on," he finally says after a moment, though he doesn't move away yet. "You want to lie down?"

Though J is perfectly aware that he's the one who's been saying he wants to go to bed, he wants to go to sleep, he suddenly finds himself resistant. As much as he knows he needs the rest, there's a flicker of anxiety that comes with the idea of sleep — not just of the possibility of being unable to do so, sleep eluding him now as it has for so long, but the irrational notion that, if he goes to sleep, none of this will have been real. It doesn't make sense, he knows that. Though he's had times when things seemed vividly real that he later realized were not — or even knew at the time were not — this is different. He knows it is. Besides, what could happen? Would he go to sleep and not wake up? All he knows is he wants this to last.

Still, there's no point in staying on unsteady feet for long, and he nods, though he doesn't yet draw back either, leaning in for one more kiss. He keeps it brief this time, though, slowly drawing back until his hand finds S's, giving it a quick squeeze. "I think I'd better," he says, wrinkling up his nose, though he's smiling all the same. "I'm feeling a little wobbly."

Habit carries him to the side of the bed that always used to be his, watching S as he slips under the covers. It feels nice to be under soft, clean sheets for a change, to feel clean himself. It'll be better, though, when S is beside him. "Ah, but I don't want to sleep," he says. "I like this too much, being with you."

Watching J get settled in bed, all of this as familiar as if they were back in their studio in Seoul, and hearing him say that he doesn't want to sleep, S can't help but smile, warm and fond, the slightest bit amused. He crosses to the bed in turn, pulling back the covers enough to climb into bed under them, easing a little closer as soon as he can. It's silly, probably, to realize that he's a little nervous, a little uncertain — not of being this close, but just because it's been so long. Muscle memory wars with something like self-consciousness, no longer having the ease with which he used to just pull J to him or curl up at his side or wrap around him. They've been closer than this by far today, and he doesn't want to seem uncomfortable when he's not. He just isn't used to navigating this at all anymore. He can think of very little he would rather readjust to.

"You don't have to sleep yet if you don't want to," he points out with a fond, almost teasing little smile. Truthfully, he thinks J needs the rest, and halfway doubts that J will be able to stay awake much longer now that they're in bed, but it isn't as if he minds the idea of just being in bed together, either. Carefully, he tries to wriggle his arm under J to coax him closer, attempting to get J to lie down at his side with his head on S's shoulder, wanting to hold him. "We can just lie here."

It takes hardly any prompting for J to move closer. This is precisely what he's been wanting, S is the one who's offered to let him stay, and yet it comes as a small relief that S urges him close. It just feels like something slotting into place, the way it should be. Curled up beside S, resting his head against S's shoulder, he drapes an arm across his waist.

They've been intimate in so many ways today already, just since his arriving here, and still this is so good, so familiar and fresh at once, that it almost overwhelms J. He tilts his head, nose brushing against S's neck, lips following shortly after. The clothes may not smell like anything but detergent yet, but S still smells like S, like home. A little bubble of bewilderment rises in his chest; he can't help wondering how this is even possible, how S can hold him like this and treat him so tenderly after all that he's done. It's not that he doubts it, exactly. S has made it very clear today that he's going into this eyes open, and J is grateful for it. It just leaves him awestruck to lie here in S's arms, to be treated so gently, to feel so safe and protected, in spite of all his crimes. Nothing he does can ever undo what came before, but this feels like a refuge all the same. Whether or not he deserves that can wait. He's too relieved, too emotional, too comfortable to think about that now.

"I do want to," he says, plucking idly at S's shirt. "But I also want to stay awake with you. This is so nice." There's so much to make up for, so many opportunities they lost. He's not ready to let go of this one yet.

It is so nice, so familiar, so gentle, so right, that for just a moment, S feels his throat tighten with emotion, even as he settles his arms around J. As close as they've already been today, this is still different, something all its own and that he's so badly missed. Just the warmth of J beside him, the soft touches and kisses, is stunningly intimate in its own right. For all that he missed the sex, too, and he really did, this is what he thought about most often in those months he was alone, especially when he was recovering, mostly bedridden anyway, and J was dead. He doesn't want to dwell on it now — doesn't want to ruin this moment by turning it into a heavy, emotional one again — but his breath still catches the slightest bit as he ducks his head to brush a kiss against J's hair, fingertips slowly tracing up and down the column of his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees softly, mouth curved in just a hint of a smile. "It is." He should probably be encouraging J to sleep anyway, remembering that J talked about how tired he was, that he hasn't been sleeping, but wanting to hold onto this for a little while longer can't, he thinks, be the worst thing he's done today. Then again, just holding J while he sleeps sounds nice, too. At least he'll be here, solid and warm and safe at S's side. Even with hours to take this in, S knows it still won't be enough to make up for all the time they were apart, but it's something, a start, so much more than he ever expected to have again.

He almost leaves it at that, but S figures it can't do any harm to add what he can't get out of his head, given how many times they've said similar things already. "I missed this."

He tried his best while he was gone not to miss these things. To a degree, J was even successful at it. But then, he knows, he's the one who left on a sour note, determined to put this relationship behind him. Remembering how right this feels would have undermined that determination and completely undone his resolve. There were times it threatened to, times he would fall asleep wishing S were with him, but he's long been adept at focusing on the negatives.

That melts away now. It's not that he forgets why he left or even doubts his reasons. Now, though, with S holding him, those problems seem like ones that can be fixed or overcome in a way they didn't before. They've faced worse now and still they're here.

Already, with the soft way S runs his fingers gently along J's back, he knows he's going to have trouble fighting off sleep for long. He can't recall the last time he felt so comfortable in bed. "Me too," he murmurs. There's no point getting into how hard he tried not to. At the end of the day, it's true. He just missed S, missed this, the intimacy and the calm. More than anything, he missed his best friend.

With his head on S's shoulder, he can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, quietly comforting. Earlier today feels like a different lifetime.

Well, he supposes, it actually was.

Even as he tips his head back just enough to look at S, he's having trouble keeping his eyes open. "Sorry I didn't come home sooner," he says. "But I'm here now."

S knows he can't let himself think about it too much, how he wishes J had come home sooner, how, if he had, things might not have turned out the way they did. It's not that it doesn't matter, necessarily, but there's nothing they can change about it now, so it wouldn't do them any good to get hung up on what might have happened instead. At least they're here. At least they have another chance to get it right, one he's determined to make the most of. At least, for now, J is safe in his arms, and S can't think of much if anything he wouldn't do to keep it that way. He knows, of course, that he can't protect J from everything, especially the things he did in those last few months, but he can try. He can be here, hopefully a port in a storm, able to help J weather whatever lies ahead.

"Stop apologizing," he says, soft and fond, all the more so for how sweet J looks when he's so clearly sleepy like this. Maybe it's warranted — certainly some apologies here are — but there's no score to keep. He knows J is sorry; it's been said more than enough today already, and been made plenty apparent beyond what's been explicitly stated. He doesn't need to keep hearing it to know it's true, and he would rather focus on what they have now than what they lost. "Like you said, you're here now. We're here."

Even if he tried, S doesn't know how he would say how much that means to him, how grateful and overwhelmed and relieved he is. With J seeming like he might be close to dozing off already, now doesn't seem like the time to attempt it, anyway. Instead, S just smiles a little again, trying to memorize all of these details that he once used to know so well. "I love you."

J could get sentimental, even maudlin, if he let himself. Now that he knows S still loves him, even knowing all he's done — now he's let himself come back to him — it hurts to know he should have done this sooner. What's past is past, though. There's enough behind him that he knows he won't be able to shake. No matter how much reason S has given him to go on, it's not going to be easy. Better to let go of what he can.

"We're here," he echoes. He missed that. Missed we, us, missed them. They were a unit before, a matched set, never one without the other. The last year has been like living with half of him missing, even before he started to watch the remaining half turn into someone else entirely. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he's starting to become whole again. As much as he feels he's owes many more apologies, for this and for other things, he doesn't let himself say it again. For now, at least, it's enough.

"I love you," he adds, gazing up at S again. He's said it so many times today, but he doesn't care. There's so much time to make up for. He held S off for so long, he feels like he might never be able to say it enough. However long he lives, he thinks, that's what that will be for, finding ways to make sure S knows how loved he is. He lifts his hand to touch S's cheek, thumb running along his skin. It strikes him again how strange it is to feel lucky in the midst of all his turmoil, on such a bizarre and painful day. He does, though, more than he'd thought he could. He falters for a moment, trying to find words for that, and settles instead on "Kiss please."

No matter how many times today he's heard that and said the same, S knows he could never tire of it. On some level, he knew J must have loved him. When they were first together, in those blissful early days, he wouldn't have doubted it; their friendship turning into something more always just felt right, like pieces falling into place, the way things were supposed to be. These past few months, after getting and reading J's journal, he's suspected it, thought that J must have loved him too, but that was bittersweet at best, for both what that love led him to do and his absence. In between, there were months of J lashing out at him and then pushing him away, messages that never got answered. J seemed to hate him at least as often as not, if not more so, and despite what was said earlier, S still isn't sure that he didn't make J miserable, or at least worse off than he otherwise would have been. There was so much resentment there, and S never really understood why, but it hadn't seemed like love in a long time, even before the knife in his chest.

Now, it's incredible and still a little surreal, despite the repetition of the past few hours. Leaning into J's touch for a moment, S then lifts his head enough to kiss him gently, unable to deny such a sweet request. This, too, he could never tire of — everything earlier, yes, but also just kissing like this, tender and without intent, holding J like he might be able to keep him. Maybe, just maybe, he can. He damn well means to try.

He lingers a moment, drawing the kiss out without pressing any deeper. This really isn't the time to risk getting carried away, especially with as tired as he knows J must be. Instead, when he draws back, it's to press another, briefer kiss to the tip of J's nose, smiling a little after he does. "There. Since you said please."

J sighs, soft and content. "I should say please more then," he says, fingertips tracing along S's cheek and along his jaw. If, as some small, irrational part of him worries, this is all just some elaborate dream before dying, one last hallucination and nothing more, then it would be a pleasant way to go, at least. He doesn't really think so, even if he can't help that tiny bit of paranoia, but at least he would die finally happy again. Now that he has this back, though, he finds he hopes he can keep living. It seems possible now, with S's skin soft beneath his fingers, the warmth of his body pressed to J's. To feel himself poised at the edge of sleep and not to feel anyone waiting there is a novelty now. He'd stopped thinking he could pass a night untormented.

But instead of ghosts, there's S, so sweet and beautiful, close enough that J can see the gentle fan of his eyelashes against his cheek. There aren't any voices but their own, only their breath and hearts keeping time. Hand resting against S's chest again, he toys with the fabric above his heart. Sleepy as he is, he's not sure he can find a way to put any of this into words. With as long as they've been separated though and as utterly haunted as J has been on his own, it feels important, worth saying.

"I haven't felt like this since before I left," he murmurs. "You make me feel... safe. At peace. I thought I never would again." He'd been so sure that there was nothing left for him in life except agony. Even not being certain what would come after the blood and the flames, it seemed worth the risk to put an end to the madness, the shame, the despair, worth it to be sure he wouldn't hurt anyone else. In a strange way, this almost does feel like an afterlife — not a fresh start, because he's still him, bearing all the scars both visible and not for his crimes, but a chance at happiness, maybe even redemption. He doesn't know what that would look like. He isn't sure he could dream it up even if he were more awake now. The most he knows for sure is that it involves doing what he can to make S happy.

In a way, it hurts to hear, though it's not a bad hurt, just a bittersweet one, an ache in his chest beneath J's hand. For all that he keeps thinking that they shouldn't dwell on what's already past, the time they can't change, it's hard, still, not to wonder how different things could have been. If he was unhappy all of those months alone, just wanting J back, it must have been worse for J, at least getting closer to the end, with as haunted as the writing in his journal made it seem like he was. And while it's possible, S still hates the idea that maybe it's all they both went through that let them have this now. This, here at each other's sides, bodies entwined, is where they've always belonged. Even before their relationship turned romantic, they just fit together, and that change, when it happened, seemed and still seems now like it was just inevitable. It doesn't seem right that it could only have been J's death and his own near-death, never mind all the others, that brought them back to each other. They could have found this again without all of that.

It happened, though. He's thought it before, and S is sure that he'll think it again, and if they both had to go through all of that, at least they get this, defying death and logic to be together again. Were it not for this place, he knows without a doubt that he would never have felt like this again. He can't bring himself to say so, not wanting J to feel guiltier for it, but S is certain of the truth of it all the same, as unmistakable as the steady beat of his heart, as the warmth of J beside him now. No one else could ever have given him this, a contentment and relief and affection so overwhelming that it feels almost heartbreaking. Even the fear for J's safety still in the back of his head is just a sort of love too.

"That's all I want," he admits, his voice not much louder than a whisper, mostly because he doesn't trust himself to maintain his composure otherwise and doesn't want to ruin this by getting too emotional over what is unquestionably a good thing. With his arms still around J, he strokes his hair absently with one hand, the other, with the arm tucked under him, slipping just under the hem of the shirt he gave J to wear, resting against the warm skin at the small of his back. "For you to feel like that." If it's with him, because of him — a stunning, staggering idea in its own right — then that's even better, though S doesn't say that it's how he tried to imagine J after his death, too, having found some sort of peace at last. "I haven't felt like this since then, either."

It's such a strange twist of fate, J thinks, letting his eyes fall shut again. They've both had difficult lives, both made things worse for each other and better, too. S shouldn't have had to go through so much so young. He shouldn't have had to be alone so long either. Again J finds himself aware of how young they are. To lose so much so young — to die so young — it's a heavy thing. There's too much tragedy in their pasts. That it should somehow work out now seems almost impossible. A second chance at this has to be a miracle, not least for the fact it required him coming back from the dead to make it happen.

He takes a slow, deep breath, head tipping up just enough for him to brush another kiss against S's neck. It's so nice. The way S touches him is so tender, so soothing. J has the vague sense that he's supposed to feel he shouldn't get this, but he can't make himself feel it now. This is too good to push away. "I want that too," he mumbles, hand falling still against S's chest. "Make you feel like this forever." Breath turning shallow, he drifts in and out, and it feels like home, like nothing's changed at all, the last year fading into nothing.

S almost replies, words on the tip of his tongue. He bites them back, though, when he feels J's breathing start to change, the closeness of their bodies pressed together making it impossible to miss, a soft little hint of a smile on his face for it. J even looks at peace like this, so sweet in his sleep. A small part of S worries that it won't stay that way — that even just having said he felt safe, J will be haunted again while he sleeps — but while he hopes J can get some rest at last, they'll weather it if he can't. He'll be here, already having long since decided to stay awake through the night just in case, not wanting J to wake up alone and frightened and as miserable as he was earlier. They've made it so far even just since then, and he thinks, or at least he hopes, that J is steadier, happier, now, but even so, he can't take the risk of assuming it will stay that way.

Like so much else, it's a temporary solution. Right now, though, it's worth it anyway for the welcome warmth of J beside him, the two of them all wrapped up in each other as if they'd never spent any nights apart, except that he savors this closeness all the more now for the earlier lack of it. Even before, it was good, incredible — even when they were still just friends and sharing a bed because their studio only had space for one, curled together to keep warm during that first winter, S just beginning to realize that what he felt was something more — but not knowing he would ever lose it, lose J, he didn't appreciate it as much as he should have, just took it in stride. He knows better now. Just the weight of J's head on his shoulder, the gentler one of his hand over S's heart, is a little miracle all on its own.

Soft, not wanting to stir him, S ducks his chin to brush a kiss against J's hair, still so full of affection that he feels overwhelmed with it, like it could bring him to tears again if he let it. He won't, but it could too easily happen, especially with those words turning over in his head. To have this forever feels like all he could ever want. Even not to feel like this, but just to be together, he would take that in a heartbeat. Whatever it takes, he thinks, to hold onto this, to keep J safe, he'll do.

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