beklemmt | 아프더라도 너만 있으면 돼

It's a long night, but it's a nice one, too. Staying awake isn't even as difficult as S would have thought it to be, though a few times, he almost dozes off, lulled into contentment by how good he feels with J beside him. He makes it, though, watches sunlight start to filter in through his apartment windows, struck as the room is illuminated by how it actually feels like home now for the presence of J in his arms. Before this past day, it was a place he was staying, nothing more, empty and impersonal and not just because he hadn't had a chance to make it otherwise. Now, though — he knows they decided to give it a few days and see, but even so, it's hard not to imagine it being theirs, the two of them having a life here. It feels possible, at least, and that's far more than he could have said twenty-four hours ago.

When, eventually, he feels J's breathing start to change, S smiles a little, then wider at J's initial greeting and the annoyance he can hear in that whine. This, like everything else, is familiar and new all at once — the beginning of a morning like so many they shared back in their studio, and yet different for how long it's been since they woke up together, every little detail now something he drinks in. Of course, he isn't actually waking up now, and back then, he never spent a whole night awake in case J might try to kill himself a second time, but still, it's close enough, pleasantly similar. Plus, J is adorable like this, though S suspects he might object to such a description.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he says, his voice both soft and a little hoarse, still all fond. "You don't have to get up yet if you don't want to."

J groans quietly, rolling his shoulders, and sighs before he answers. "I want to," he says, his voice a bit rough. It was a long night, he's pretty sure, and a longer day before that, and it strikes him now that he's thirsty, maybe even hungry. More than that, though, now that he's started to wake, he wants to stay that way. He'd forgotten that mornings could be nice, too, that he might want to face another day.

Rubbing his eyes, he blinks again, then lifts himself up slightly to see S better, then to lean in and kiss him. It occurs to him after a moment that his breath is probably terrible, all things considered, but he also doesn't care. He's not sure S will either. It's been too long since he had a chance to do this, waking up in S's arms, kissing him good morning. Even if he hopes that things stay simple enough he gets more days like this, he doesn't want to waste this first opportunity by going back to bed. When he draws back, he takes a moment just to look at S, how cute he looks with his hair mussed like this. "Yah," he says softly, smile fond, "even first thing in the morning you look good. Unfair."

He'll have to get up for real in a minute or two probably, give into his body's demands, but he's in no hurry to do so. He wants to soak this in, capture every detail and commit it to memory. No matter whether they get one more day or a thousand or more, having this again is too special to miss.

S can't help but laugh at that, but it's more pleased than amused, smiling sleepily as he does. He kept thinking so last night, too, but everything about this is just nice — the casual intimacy of waking up beside each other, limbs entwined, the way J gazes down at him and says he looks good. Even the morning breath between them, it's hard to mind just to have J greet him with a kiss, such a little thing, and one they did plenty of yesterday, but still so welcome. He spent all night here, but still, he'd gladly stay a little longer just to continue savoring this.

"Who says you don't?" he counters, teasing but genuine, his smile widening a little further. "You're cute like this." There are plenty of other words he could use, too — J is beautiful, always — but right now, when he's so terribly endeared, that seems like the right one. Plus, he half-suspects J might protest to that, too, which will, S is certain, be even cuter.

He could move, start to get up. Both more immediately speaking, around the apartment, and today in general, there are things they should do. It isn't worth it yet, though; there's nothing that can't wait, nothing that's more important than the warmth and slight weight of J against his side or the way J smiles. Although he knows he can't assume, although he'll ask, when J has been awake for a little longer, his demeanor so far makes S think that he must have been right about J sleeping at least somewhat restfully, too, not plagued by the ghosts he alluded to yesterday and wrote about in his journal. S isn't so vain as to believe that he kept them at bay, but it's nice to think that he might have helped.

Simply because he can and because J is close, he lifts his head, stealing another quick kiss.

J huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes, affectionate though it might be. "I'm not cute," he says. He wrinkles up his nose at the idea of it. Of the two of them, S has always been cuter, always been prettier. J doesn't mind that, though. He's lucky to get to be the person S loves, and he has no real need of being attractive. As long as S thinks he is, looks serve no other real purpose for him. Granted, he sometimes can see how he might have appealing features and he wouldn't mind being handsome. It's just hard to see himself as cute. These last few months, the notion never crossed his mind for an instant.

He shifts back a little, tugging at S's shirt to prod him into coming closer, leaning over him. "You're cute. Beautiful too. How did you come to be so beautiful?" He lifts his head for another kiss, quick this time, but enough to leave him smiling, pleased with himself. It's a scene that could have been lifted directly from the early days of their relationship, and that makes it all the more precious to him. He'd thought he lost that person long ago — those people, really, that he'd kept S too far at bay in spite of S's attempts to coax him home and that he wasn't the same man S fell for. Like this, though, he feels like he could still be that man. And while that raises questions he'd rather not engage with now, it still feels good.

It's almost exactly the response he expected — the first part, anyway — and S grins for it, nodding as soon as the words have left J's mouth. "Yes, you are," he says. "Cuter when you try to say you're not." Maybe it's a little childish to be disputing such a thing, but right now, he doesn't think that's so bad. Waking up like this, or being with J when he wakes up like this, at least, is so enjoyable; if it weren't for how long they've been apart and how much better this feels because he was never supposed to get to have it again, it would be like any other morning they've spent together, the rest of the world not needing to exist yet. Soon enough, it will. He thinks, again, that there are things the two of them ought to do, and, really, they probably shouldn't risk getting carried away when these are his last clean sheets.

Knowing that doesn't stop him from leaning in for another kiss, pushing his hand back through J's hair, still gentle but lingering. "And beautiful. So beautiful." It's not really an answer, but then, he doesn't really think the same of himself. He's decent-looking, he knows that, confident enough without being arrogant or vain, if less so these past months. It's too early — too late — too something to start thinking about how J can't stand the sight of him without a shirt on, though. If J staying here is going to work out, there are various hurdles they'll have to overcome, but they can start figuring all of that out later.

A little less reverent again, a little more teasing, he adds, "But right now, mostly cute."

J means to protest again, not minding being cute, exactly, just dubious of the veracity of that claim. It's hard to follow through, though, when S kisses him and then follows it up with that. The way he looks at J, the softness in his voice — like this, J feels it might be true. Being beautiful, S thinking he's beautiful — what's the difference? If S says it like this, it's true enough. Close like this, adoration in S's gaze, J feels as if the world is so soft and still, so safe.

He lifts a hand to caress S's cheek, smiling, the way he wrinkles his nose a halfhearted deflection. "For you then," he says wryly. "I guess I can be a little cute for you." He feels playful, at least, somewhat, which is close maybe to cute. Affectionate, too, more rested as he grows more alert, all of which makes a pleasant change, so much so that yesterday almost seems like a nightmare he had a long time ago. Tucking his fingers under S's chin, he guides him close for another soft kiss. Even now, quietly content, there are warring urges inside him, a distant sense that he shouldn't get to be coddled and comforted now at odds with a stronger desire for love and compliments.

In any case, though he knows he'll have to deal with all that eventually, that too feels far away now. What really matters is the way S smiles at him, J's own expression so soft, his smile almost shy. "Am I really beautiful?" Whether he is or not, he knows S will say he is, but he likes to hear it.

The question is one that S thinks ought to be self-explanatory, and one he doesn't mind answering again at all. Even with as many times as he must have said so before, even being fairly certain that he did so as recently as yesterday, when J asks like that, he could never consider holding it back, all teasing falling away as he nods. "So very," he says, soft and sincere, gaze all full of unrestrained affection. He knows, of course, that he's biased, so fond that it wouldn't matter what J looked like; he knows, too, that it wasn't J's looks that he was first attracted to, half in love before he ever realized how handsome J is, even if he hadn't yet put that word to it. S isn't sure that entirely makes sense, but he believes it anyway, that it's both a wholly objective truth and something utterly compounded by his own feelings. Even yesterday, with J smudged with soot and blood and tears, S was certain he'd never seen nor would he see anyone so beautiful. It's even truer in a moment like this, though, that sweet look on J's face making S's heart ache.

One hand lifting in turn, he rests it lightly against J's jaw, thumb brushing against his cheek. "Stunning." He still isn't sure that's enough, but different as their approaches might be, he thinks they're both better at putting things into music than into words. Considering that just reminds him of how long it's been since he's so much as tried to write anything, though, so he pushes it away for the moment, not wanting to venture down that path yet. Besides, for J, it's worth making the effort to say it, especially if it keeps him looking like he does now in a moment this peaceful. "I could keep going."

For a moment, J simply closes his eyes, letting himself feel this moment, gently pinning it to his memory. Everything is perfect now. Even the ache of his tired limbs, even the distant awareness of hunger, is perfect, a reminder he's still impossibly alive. S touches him like he's precious. He's not sure anyone else has ever treated him with such care or love. He leans into that touch readily, eyes opening again to take in the sight of S, all the little details he missed so much. He has such beautiful eyes, so warm and kind.

How long has it been since he last knew this kind of peace? It must have been something like this, too, the pair of them tangled up in each other. No one else has ever given him this, he's sure of that. "You could," he agrees, sighing happily. It isn't, he thinks, just that S is the only person who loves him this deeply. It's that he's never cared about anyone half as much as he does about S. This kind of tranquility needs both. Resting here like this, he almost feels he gives as much as he takes for a change.

He doesn't really give S time to continue, though, turning his head to press a kiss to S's palm. "I worried it might be a dream," he says. "That I'd wake up without you." Or not at all. "But you're here."

S is about to continue, mulling over what adjectives might be good to add, when what J says next stops him from doing so. His expression grows a little more thoughtful then, though still so fond, as he gives a slight nod of something like agreement, not yet drawing his hand away. Had he slept, S knows he would probably have felt the same, afraid that he'd wake up alone again, though he really doesn't think he could have imagined everything that happened yesterday. Still, even after hours of lying here, this is so surreal; no amount of tangible proof, not spending the night with J's head resting against his shoulder or the ache he can feel in his hips after yesterday, could change that.

If he stops to think about it — which he shouldn't now, but has done while J slept, and before that, too, more fleetingly — then he knows that might not ever change. Whatever time they have here is borrowed, the only chance they could ever get. J might not even be able to make himself stay alive, and even if he does, that won't undo the months S had to grieve for him. Instead, it feels as if the two states of being coexist. J is still here, but S still lost him, too, and the latter makes the former all the more incredible, something he knows he could never lose sight of.

"I'm here," he says instead of any of that, his voice a little quieter. "So are you. It's still real."

It's nice to hear, though nicer still that J finds he was already sure for a change, not wracked with anxiety the way he so often is. Whatever fears he conjured up in his sleep-deprived mind are gone now, softened by the morning light and the easy peace of being here with S. He would have thought, too, that this would be more difficult. Even thinking he might sleep, he hadn't expected to wake rested. He hadn't thought he'd still feel alright when he woke; he'd thought instead that everything would flood back over him, that the pain of yesterday would be interminable, unbearable. Being wrong is a relief, but that's another thing he's not ready to examine.

It's easier to hold these things at bay when he has S to focus on. "Very real," he murmurs. For a moment, he ducks his head forward, hides it against the crook of S's neck, pressing soft kisses there. When he thinks about anything outside of this moment, life quickly becomes difficult and contradictory; all of that is real, too, still. It doesn't have to be yet, though. Nothing has to be but this, the familiar scent of S, the warmth of his skin beneath J's lips. Hand dropping to rest at S's waist, he looks up again. "I'm glad." That seems very simple, though, not enough, and he wants S to know he means this, and how he means it. "That I'm here," he clarifies. "That we're together." He smiles a little wider, brushing a kiss against S's jaw. "That I have the prettiest boyfriend in the world."

There are so many reasons he could be miserable. In time, he knows, he will be again. Right now, though, S is holding him, gently radiant, and he's incredibly loved, and that deserves his attention too.

In a way, it feels a little unfair to keep comparing this to before. They aren't who they were then, with so much more weighing them down than in that blissful first while after they made their friendship something more. He was still a little adrift then, grieving the loss of his family, but he had J to see him through it, his best friend and then his boyfriend too, and it was enough to help him survive it, incredible, too, for a while. Even now, S isn't entirely sure what changed or when or why, just that it did, and nothing he could do seemed to be enough to stop it. This isn't that. It's even better for the time they've been apart and how impossible this ought to be; they've both been through so much worse, haunted, albeit differently, by everything that happened, both of them with scars both physical and emotional that might fade but will never completely heal. They didn't get it right before, but they have a chance to now, and the only way he thinks they'll manage that is to do things differently this time around.

Still, still, knowing that, S doesn't think there's anything wrong with holding onto feeling a little like he did then, everything warm and soft and playful and romantic. They're both here, this is real, and it's so good, the gentle brush of J's lips against his jaw and throat where there's bound to be a mark from yesterday, the way J smiles and calls him his boyfriend. He's been thinking it, of course, but it's nice to hear, too, making his heart trip a beat with a giddy rush like when they first started using such language to talk about each other, S smiling in turn.

"I am, too," he says, happily incredulous, a little teasing again after just a moment. "I don't think you do, though. Have the prettiest boyfriend. You can't, because I do." It is, again, a little childish, and something they could talk themselves in circles on, arguing which of them is prettier when they could never agree, but maybe, after everything, they deserve to be a little childish, at least until they get up and face everything else ahead. Turning his head, he catches J's mouth with his own to cut off any response, smiling into another brief kiss.

Before J can protest, however playfully, he's cut off, leaving him to make a muffled sound into S's mouth. He doesn't exactly mind, though. Kissing S is something he doesn't think he'll ever tire of. Hearing S call him his boyfriend, for that matter, never gets old. They've used so many terms and endearments now, and none of them are precisely right — boyfriends feels small compared to how he feels, lovers doesn't seem to carry the right weight of emotion, and they can't claim to be married, though there have been times when he's thought they might as well have been. No matter how young he knows they are, there was a time when he would have asked, if it had been a possibility. Like this, now, he feels that way again, how all encompassing this love can be. It wraps around him, a protection against the world, and he feels lighter than he has in too long by far.

Still, regardless of whether or not there's a word for them, boyfriend is charming to hear. That he said it first doesn't matter. Besides, S is so cute like this, all pleased with himself. "Mm, very wrong," he says warmly. Even in those early days when he first started to recognize his own attraction to S, he knew it. No one could ever be as beautiful as S — not in his eyes, at least, and he doubts many people compare objectively. It's only grown truer with time and distance. So much has come between them — himself mostly, or maybe entirely — that their being here at all feels like a miracle, which only makes S more incandescent than before.

"My boyfriend," he continues, playing idly with S's shirt, "is breathtakingly beautiful. And yours is a skinny wreck." He's smiling, though, brow lifting in self-deprecation, not all that bothered by his own description. It's hard to argue, he thinks, when it's true. His health was rarely a primary concern for him, but he knows he's lost weight. It was perhaps the least of the things that bothered him when he saw himself in the mirror yesterday, but it's true all the same. He huffs out a laugh, head lifting to kiss S again, a pleasant retaliation.

For a split second — not even that long — S almost argues that point. J smiles, though, and the instinct fades, even before he's leaning in for another kiss. Instead, S lets out a soft laugh of his own against J's mouth, weighing his words but lighthearted when he draws back. "Okay, yes, you are too skinny," he allows, teasingly poking J in the ribs with one index finger, gentle but insistent. Wreck, he can't agree with, but he doesn't want to get into the semantics of something that could probably lead in too serious a direction. Besides, it would probably be hypocritical. Yesterday, J barely saw him without his shirt on, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the scars and figure out what they were. S knows, though, that he's skinnier than he used to be, too. Maybe not as much so — he's already started getting back a little of the weight he lost in the first weeks after the surgery — but what would probably be noticeable if he were to take his shirt off in front of J, if not the most noticeable change about him. At least that particular change isn't a permanent one.

It doesn't have to be for either of them, though, and he doesn't think it negates his earlier point, either. J is still so beautiful — breathtakingly so, as J just said about him — despite being thinner than S remembers. And while he can't actually change that himself, it is, S thinks, one more upside to the idea of J just staying here, that he can make sure he eats enough. "You better let me feed you today, since you didn't yesterday," he says, affectionately teasing, hoping that humor will temper the weight of it a little so that he can take care of J as he would like to. "I'll make breakfast in a bit."

He would have to move for that, though, and he isn't ready to do that yet, wanting to linger here just a little longer, in the warmth and sweetness of being back with J like this. "Still think you're wrong, though," he adds, half-muffled against J's mouth. "Even if he is too skinny, my boyfriend is still the prettiest one. Couldn't be anyone prettier."

There are, J knows, plenty of men who would protest a description like that for other reasons. For himself, he doesn't really care how S describes him. It's the warmth with which he does so that matters. It's the way it feels to know how attractive S finds him, even now, in spite of everything. So while he would hesitate to call himself pretty, considering his features not delicate enough for that, not like S, he appreciates it all the same. Even if S is wrong.

Both those things, the appreciation and his certainty that S is by far the more attractive of them, leave him half-inclined to deepen the kiss, to urge S on top of him. Slow, lazy morning sex sounds really, really good, and he finds himself reminded that they only get so many second chances at firsts. Still, S has mentioned breakfast. Given that he is a bit hungry, that seems like a simple thing he can do, give S a way to take care of him that he doesn't have any issues with. He promised he'd try.

Slipping a hand into S's hair, he kisses him again even so. "Mm, but if you feed me, I'll stop being so skinny," he teases, "and then I'll be even prettier, and what will you do? I might be too much for you to handle."

Again, S thinks that it would be entirely too easy to get carried away here, and again, he thinks that they really shouldn't let themselves. It's not like earlier yesterday when he still thought it would be a bad idea to do so, ill-advised and reckless, for all that that didn't stop them and, he thinks, it turned out not to be a bad idea after all. He just has no more clean bedding until he does laundry later, and it's been a while even since he's eaten; he has no idea how long it's been since J has, but he would guess that it's probably been even longer. Just practically speaking, it wouldn't be wise right now. They'll have time later, anyway, to get lost in each other again, a thought that's still stunning when this ought to have been impossible. He'll have to make sure it's worth the wait.

"Never," he says with a slight shake of his head, and while it could be too true if he let it, he keeps his voice light, his expression teasing, the word nearly lost between kisses. "I'll just keep thinking about how lucky I am." That, too, is far truer than the specifics of the conversation. S has no idea how he could have come to be so lucky, getting this impossible second chance with the man he loves so much, being loved by J again. How J looks has nothing to do with that, really; it's just a nice bonus that S can't imagine anyone being more beautiful. He smiles, a little pleased with himself, still soft and fond. "And how glad that it means you'll be eating."

J laughs, hushed, and shakes his head. He knows it's been some time since he ate well, though it's hard for him to keep track of these things when he's always been bad at remembering to eat when he's focused. Having next to no money the last year hasn't helped on that front. Still, it's nice to have S acknowledge that like this, soft and easy, concern cushioned by affection rather than overpowering it. After yesterday's trials, he thinks he'll be glad to have something to eat again, reluctant though he is to leave their bed, but also it's comforting to be able to do that and give S something positive. He knows how badly S wants to take care of him.

Fingers playing with S's hair, he kisses him again. "So lucky," he murmurs. "Both of us." He won't take that away from S, despite the voices in the back of his head, the difficulty he has in fathoming that being true, that anyone could be lucky to have him. When S seems so genuinely happy, he doesn't want to dampen that now. "You know how I am. I just forget. Ah, but if you cook, I'll eat well, I promise." He could offer to cook, but S is better at it than he is, and it's his kitchen. J wouldn't know where to start. Besides, he suspects that S enjoys that part of it, too, not just seeing J eat but knowing he made the food. "You'll regret it when I'm more handsome than you are."

He does know how J is; he also knows these past months have probably been worse in that regard, with no one else there to temper it and the state J has been in. Thinking about that feels a little strange now, actually. For all that S knows how much it probably helped yesterday, for him to have already known the things J has done, and more than that, too, to know what motivated J and who S really blames for it, it seems more intrusive now that J isn't dead anymore to have been privy to what he meant for no one else to read. Still, S can't dwell on that slight guilt now, not when J looks and sounds so sweet, not when he thinks it might help him do better this time, to understand J in a way he didn't before. There's still so much they'll have to talk about, but not yet. This is far too nice to interrupt.

"I won't," he says, still teasing and pleased in equal measure, smiling at the way J's fingers feel in his hair. "Worth it to make sure you eat." He already thinks J is the more handsome one of them anyway, but he thinks they're both biased in each other's favor in that regard. There's no way they could ever agree. "What do you want?" he asks, momentarily with grand plans of making J any breakfast he could dream of before he remembers his limited groceries, bought only for one while trying to save money, and then looks a little sheepish. "I don't know what I have here, but still."

Long ago, J honestly found it funny a lot of the time and charming, too, if only on S's part. He'd get so distracted learning a new piece or trying to write something, he'd get lost in it for hours at a time, only to find S trying to convince him he should probably eat something. It was nice then to have someone who'd take care of him. On his own, it was easy enough to believe he didn't need that, that it was better for him to be independent instead of always relying on S. It was easy, too, to think he'd relied on him too much, until S started to assume control without realizing it. After yesterday, though, that talk they had he's only starting to remember, about being honest with each other, he hopes they can curb that tendency. Both of their tendencies, really.

And, in any case, right now, whether or not he deserves it aside, he needs someone, probably, to take care of him. He wouldn't want anyone else to do it though. Anyone else and he'd still resent the effort, feeling childish for needing that care. With S, now, warm in his arms, it's easier to remember how they used to do that for each other. And maybe it'll be a long time before he's steady enough to be that for S again, if he makes it that long, but maybe it's something worth striving for.

"Yah, so cute," he murmurs at the look on S's face. It really isn't fair. Even yesterday, a lifetime ago, seeing him again for the first time in almost a year, it was hard to see him and not lose his breath, heart racing, all his resolve faltering.

This is better by far. This almost feels like being himself again.

"I don't know," he continues, fingertips tracing idly down the curve of S's cheek, one tapping briefly against his lips. "Whatever you have. I don't mind what. I just like you cooking for me."

Briefly, S wonders if it's strange to have missed that, too, then quickly decides that even if it isn't, he probably doesn't need to say so. He's missed everything, from the bigger things like mornings like this in bed together and the sex they had yesterday and the very fact of J loving him at all to the insignificant, mundane details like being able to cook for his boyfriend. In no small part, it stems from an instinctive desire to take care of J, yes, but even beyond that, it's just nice, pleasantly domestic in a way he's always liked and hasn't had in so long, that he thought he never would again. Cooking for himself was never half as enjoyable, and not just because, these last few months, he couldn't really even do that, unable to stay on his feet for very long through a significant amount of that time.

In a way, he wishes he could tell J about all of that, but it wouldn't be worth it when he knows J would probably only just feel guiltier than he already does. That's the last thing S wants. He just doesn't really know how else to say it — how glad, how relieved he is to have this now, how he'd thought he would never be happy like this again, what an unexpected, welcome reprieve this is from anticipating a lifetime alone. Even with everything still overhead and everything they haven't discussed yet, even with as difficult as he knows this is likely to be, it's so much better than any other future he could have had, and so much better than things have been, too.

Eventually, maybe, he can get to that. At some point down the line, he might be able to tell J about how things have been in his absence. All of this still feels far too fragile for that, though, S's current contentedness no less for the way things were earlier yesterday but not enough to erase that, either. Still smiling, just enjoying the gentle way J touches him, he nods. "I like it, too," he says, stealing another soft kiss. "I also like this."

J nods in agreement, now tapping his finger against S's nose. "Me too," he says, voice still low, just for them. Had he lived — even had he not done the things he did — he expected to do so alone. Even in his certainty that he'd done the right thing in leaving, even in his refusal to think about it, only to push it all aside, he knew there wouldn't be anyone else. He'd thought he could do that, a life devoted to his craft, his career, no need for anyone else. He'd thought that would be enough. And maybe, had that happened, he would have continued to think so, letting himself be distracted by all he made and played. Right now, though, looking at S, taking in every detail, he knows how lonely he was. A lifetime of that would have been miserable.

He can't stop touching S, fingers slipping back into his hair again, just wanting any bit of connection he can get. There's a pleasant hush to this moment. Even though he knows at the back of his mind it can't last, that's all the more reason to enjoy this, an idyllic morning together, nothing mattering beyond this bed. "I love you," he murmurs, chasing another kiss. "I love you so much."

After yesterday, he'd thought they could never be together again, and then, proven wrong, he'd expected a fraught and painful future. He hasn't ruled that out, exactly; he doesn't look forward to getting out of bed and facing anything outside of this moment. Right now, though, everything feels good — almost like falling in love all over again, knowing each other better even than before.

Despite how many times he's heard that in the past day, S still feels his breath catch at the sound of it, at once familiar and incredible. It's different, he thinks, to have known that must have been the case, almost as if convincing himself of it, and actually hearing it, having proof that isn't a dead man's journal, feeling loved when J leans in to kiss him again. After he lost J, there was no one left in the world who loved him. S had every reason to believe it would stay that way, too, and none at all to imagine that he would have something like this ahead of him, an impossible reunion with the man he loves, all his affection seemingly returned in kind. For J to be here, alive, would have been incredible enough; for J to feel like this about him again, still, is even more so, no matter what he might have suspected, logically, to be the case.

Not having the words for any of it and not wanting to risk disrupting this anyway, S follows that kiss with another, slightly deeper one, the only way he can find to tell J how much that means to him. He can't get too caught up in this — he's still thinking about breakfast, more for J's sake than his own, and they still don't have any more clean sheets — but it feels good all the same, his own hand resting lightly over J's jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. "I love you, too," he says, and thinks that he couldn't get any more sick of saying so than hearing it, smiling a little a moment later. "Always have, always will."

It's a little overwhelming. J was alone for so long, left to his own madness, lost in despair. Empty months by himself, filled with frustration, tipped over into the unthinkable, and he came to see himself as utterly beyond repair or redemption. To know — to feel — how deeply S still loves him would be enough to make his head spin on its own. Being happy is almost too much. It hurts a little bit. It's hard not to think that he threw this away, pushed everything good out of his life, left only darkness behind. That he gets a second chance to be happy doesn't make any sense, doesn't seem fair, and yet he's selfish. He knows he is, a broken, greedy thing, desperate to keep this love and to hold onto the hope it's given him.

To hold onto S, at all costs. "Always," he echoes, quietly fervent. They're too much a part of each other, he thinks, for that ever to change. He wasn't whole on his own, not really. Not like this. Again he turns his head to kiss S's palm, part tenderness, part an effort to keep himself from giving into the urge to kiss S on the lips again, looking for more than kisses. Happy though he is, he's also tired and hungry and thirsty. It wouldn't be fun for either of them to start getting all worked up only to find he can't physically handle sex right now.

Lifting his hand to rest against S's, he looks back to him, smiling softly, a little wistful. "We should get up, shouldn't we?" he asks. "I just want to stay here with you all day."

Truthfully, it's what S wants, too. Although he's usually the more practical and pragmatic of the two, right now, he thinks he'd like nothing more than to spend the whole day like this, pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist, starting to make up for lost time together, keeping at bay all those things which might chip away at this beautiful, delicate peace. He can't do so forever, he knows. There's no way to undo the things that have happened, not even now that J is alive again, and it's probably for the best that he doesn't try to pretend them away. That, the way he sees it, would be far greater a sin on his part than to love J in spite of the things he's done. He can hold it off for a little while, though, or he can try to, just long enough to keep J safe, and, selfishly, for him to have something this good to cling to in the meantime, until the rush of this wears off and reality sets in again.

J is right, though, and he knows it, nodding in agreement. "We should," S says. "You promised to eat if I cook. And I have to do laundry." Still he doesn't yet budge for all the fondness in his gaze when he looks at J. "Should probably go out, too, if you're feeling up to it. Not for long." He said yesterday that they'd go by the train station, though that was before J agreed to stay with him for a few days at least, and his apartment isn't stocked for two people to be living in it. He had no reason to think there would be, buying clothes and food and toiletries only for one. For that matter, he had no reason to think he would be having sex here anytime soon, either.

He smiles anyway, slight and reassuring. "But maybe we can stay here the rest of the day." They just got each other back, defying all possible logic to do so. S thinks it only stands to reason that they'd want to savor that.

There's a moment where J's heart skips a beat, the thought of going out unnerving. He's gone out on errands while living alone, but he kept that to a minimum. Beyond that, he's hardly been around people at all, except for the times he doesn't want to think about now. There was a time when he was fine going out in a crowd. He didn't precisely relish it, but he didn't hate it either. After so much time by himself, though, being around other people can leave him uneasy — more so now, when he spends his days haunted by the dead and his own mind. More still here, perhaps, in a new world. He isn't yet sure if a lack of familiarity will help or hurt, but it's enough of an unknown to worry him.

S's voice is gentle, though, his words soothing. That maybe is something to hold onto. They may even decide they don't want to get back in bed so early after all, but the option will be there. It makes sense that there are things they need to do first.

So J nods, just a little. "Not for long," he agrees slowly. "But I should see where I am, right?" It's not like he took in much of anything yesterday. A city, he's sure of that much, but beyond that, he was too distracted to take in, even before S walked over and took up the whole of his attention. "And we'll need more food." His smile flickers slowly back into place, faintly sly. "And sheets, among other things."

Clothes, too, he knows, but he's not sure he's steady enough to stomach clothes shopping on top of everything else. That kind of thing takes more time than he's inclined to spend outside of this apartment yet. As it is, he's pretty sure he's going to spend much of the trip out keeping hold of S's hand.

It goes over a little better than S expected, or at least worried, that it might, his own smile a little steadier at J's response. A part of him feels a little guilty for that — for instinctively thinking that J might not feel up to it — but then, he remembers yesterday J saying that he didn't want to be out there before he asked if there was somewhere else they could go, so it doesn't feel like too unfair a thought. After all, it's been a long, strange day, even more so for J than for him. It would be reasonable, S thinks, for the idea of going out and taking everything in to seem overwhelming. There really are things they should do, though, and it's a relief that J agrees. Simple tasks though they might be, nothing that really ought to require them both to go, he really doesn't want to admit that he doesn't feel like he can leave J alone here, too afraid of what he might come back to if he did.

In time, he thinks, that will fade. Everything is just so raw still, and the happiness he feels is remarkably effective at holding that fear back, but it hasn't left him entirely. Maybe this will help with that, too, though, he thinks. As good as he's felt since sometime yesterday, as much as he likes how it feels when the rest of the world seems to fall away and leave only the two of them, a return to real life, even a temporary one, might be grounding, making this all seem a little steadier, making him a little less convinced of how easily he could lose J again.

"That's what I was thinking," he agrees, a touch amused. "We'll just get what we need, and then we'll come back here." That, too, is something that he knows can't last. They can't spend all day, every day glued to each others' sides, hiding away from the rest of the world. When he only just got J back, though, S thinks he could hardly be blamed for wanting to stay wrapped up in each other, just for a little while, as they start to find their footing and make up for lost time. "But breakfast first."

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