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S has much, much less to apologize for, and J's still struggling to figure out how much of it he feels he can actually blame S for. It's tempting to take all the blame onto himself now, to assume all of it was his own fault. But they were both there. J didn't give him much to work with, but then it's not like J was all that sure of what was going on either. He can't act like S should have known what to do, though, at the time, he knows he did, frustrated to have S right there and unable to put things right. He can't just say none of it was on S, but he's also not sure there was a right way to handle it at all. They both made mistakes, J can allow that much. His own were just much, much, much more serious.

But S still loves him. In spite of all that, all the things he said and didn't say, the things he did and didn't do, S loves him — exactly as J always should have known he did, wholly and without conditions. Exactly as he always did. It is the most soothing thing S could possibly tell him, but it comes as a relief every single time he says it. It's going to take time, J can already tell, before it sinks in completely. He's been afraid for far too long to turn that off so easily.

"Just because you love me doesn't mean I'm not sorry," he says, a soft protest. "I was horrible to you." He hesitates, biting back the rest of what he nearly says, how he hurt S — not just emotionally, physically. As if it weren't bad enough to have made S doubt his love, he literally stabbed him.

In a strange way, though, the thought of it almost helps. He hates to think about it, though for a full week there he couldn't stop remembering. Doing so, though, makes him realize how different things have been already today. Uncertain though he's been and cautious, he hasn't felt that same kind of volatility. No matter how emotional this conversation has been or how upset he's become, he's never once felt the urge to lash out that way or come even close to thinking of hurting S. It gives him some hope, at least, that he'll be able to stay here. They should be together.

He takes a deep breath and sighs, kissing the side of S's head again. "I'll try to stop," he says, "if you stop. You don't need to be sorry. I have a lot more to apologize for, okay?" All they can do is keep trying together. Nothing's going to change if they refuse to apologize, and nothing will happen if they can't stop apologizing either. "And I love you just as you are too."

Although he would like to, S knows that he can't refute that, either, not really. At his worst, J could be cruel, and though S could hold his own, could be short-tempered in turn when he finally ran out of patience, he was never prone to lashing out like that. Of the two of them, only one has tried to kill the other, too, though thinking so just makes S feel sad and vaguely ill. It's true, but he can't say it; he has no interest whatsoever in holding that over J's head, a twisted trump card he would always be able to play. It happened, he lived, and while he can't say that some of J's apologies aren't warranted, he doesn't need to hear what he already knows. It won't help either of them for J to wallow forever in that guilt. As much as it's possible to understand it, S understands it, or he thinks he does. He also knows that it wasn't something J decided to do on his own. He may have wielded the knife, but he only did so because someone else put it in his hand, showed him where to point it, and pushed him in that direction.

He should say so. He can't only continue putting off that particular conversation. Now isn't the time, though. They're both so worn out — or he is, anyway, drained from both the exertion of sex and now all of this crying — and going down that road is bound only to make things more fraught at best. They've been carefully steering clear of any discussion of what J did, at least of addressing it directly, and while there's only so long that can last, he isn't ready to be the one to bring it up yet. Getting into those other particulars, the blame that doesn't belong with either of them, is an even less appealing prospect, not least for how loaded a subject that is for him. He can't do it, not yet; he can't ruin this peace. Maybe that's unfair when he's just agreed to talk to J more, to tell him when things are wrong, to let J take care of him, but S can't really believe that. They've both been through so much, and this is just temporary, a way of protecting them both, giving them a brief respite from the worst parts of their past and letting them savor being together again. When they're a little steadier, then he can try to say it, or at least some of it. Not now. Not yet.

"I do," S counters, because he knows he needs to be sorry, because he is sorry for so many things, some rational, some probably less so, far too deeply and painfully so just to let that go. Talking themselves in circles about who's sorry for what isn't going to help matters any, though, so he lets out a breath and gives a little nod, pressing another soft kiss to J's shoulder. "But alright. I'll try to stop. Only so you'll try to stop too." It seems like a fair enough trade, at least. If holding back his own apologies will do anything to keep J from feeling like he needs to keep offering them too, then it's worth the effort and then some. His breathing still just a little shaky, he inhales as deeply as he can, staying close. "Not going to stop telling you I love you, though."

That seems reasonable enough a compromise, J thinks. There will still be apologies they need to make — him, mostly — and he's sure he'll fuck up again in the future, though he hopes with less fatal consequences, and he'll have to apologize for those too. He can try, though, at least, to do so less if it means S won't say he's sorry so much. J will accept the apology, if only because it means S is hearing, trying, but he doesn't need more of them.

In a way, he thinks, maybe he's only apologizing this much to S not just because it's merited but because he's the only one J can apologize to. It's not something he wants to think about right now, though. It would be wonderful if he could simply move on, do better and let that be enough, but he doesn't think he could stomach even trying to do so. They'll have to talk about it at some point, to some extent. Right now, though, he thinks this is more important. They both know what he did, and it can't be changed. This, though, they can set right.

"Good," he says, soft and small, hand coming up to cradle the back of S's head. "Never stop." He wants to kiss him, suddenly, but that doesn't seem as important as simply holding him until they both feel steadier. "And I'll keep saying it too." He sniffs and it turns into a laugh, self-conscious. "Ah, all day, it's all I want to say. I feel like I have so much to make up for. I love you so much."

In spite of how heavy everything still feels — not bad, really, and promising in a lot of ways, but heavy all the same — S manages a smile at that. It's still a tired expression, or it would be if he lifted his head from J's shoulder, but it's earnest, and just the fact of that is a relief. He's felt that before, that it must be a good thing for them to be able to navigate their way through rougher seas and back into calmer waters again, but since yesterday, the last time they both broke down like this, those shakier moments have been quieter, circumventing this entirely. As hard as it's has been, as exhausted as he feels, there's something heartening, too, just in being able to do this. Chances are, they're going to have a lot more conversations that bring them both to tears like this, but they'll know, when they do, that they got through this alright, still together, still so terribly in love, no significant crises this time, nothing compared to how scared he was yesterday.

Despite how painful some of what J has said has been to hear, just to have talked about this feels oddly good, too. Or maybe not good quite yet, but like it could be good, once the dust has settled and they've pulled themselves together more and had time to process everything. S has been trying not to get too far ahead of himself, not wanting to assume even that J will be able to stay alive, but he feels hopeful that, at least, if J does, they can make this work. They have to at least have a shot. Just in these past few minutes, they've talked more, really talked, than they have in such a long time. And, yes, he wishes they'd been able to do so sooner, but he can't get stuck on that. All of that is in the past, and at least they're doing it now.

"Good," he echoes, a bit of warmth creeping into his voice, rough as it is from so much crying. Still close, he turns his head a little, just enough that he can brush a kiss against J's neck, too. "I don't think I could get any more sick of hearing it than I could of saying it." Just for J to be alive is, in itself, a miracle. This, though — there aren't any words for it, none that he knows, to describe the relief and the wonder of being loved again, not just reading about it in a journal but having it be present and real, coming from someone he loves so much. "It's been all I want to say, too. Even more for having to go out."

Edited 2021-03-03 14:10 (UTC)

This time, at least, the sound J makes, bordering on a whine, is entirely petulant, not distressed. "I don't wanna go out ever again," he says, knowing fully that it's a lie. It's been a long time since he really liked going out more than he had to, but he thinks he might actually be looking forward to exploring together. Even so, he's in no hurry to do so. The trip may not have gone nearly as badly as he expected, but he'd much rather stay here, enjoying this moment as things even out. S's lips and then his breath are warm against J's neck, calming him.

"Just wanna stay here," he murmurs. "Just us." Besides, going out, being around people, it's hard. It was bad enough when they were more practiced at hiding their relationship. It's worse now when they've barely gotten each other back, and when being in public somehow serves to remind J of just how much else he's hiding. It doesn't feel safe out there. Here, though, holding S in his arms, this bed is an island away from the rest of the world, somewhere they can stay tucked away, protected.

Tilting his head, he nudges at S's, mouth pulling into a small, unsteady smile. "But we have today and tomorrow." They still have to do laundry, of course. It's impossible not to be aware of it; it's hardly his focus, but it's still in the back of his thoughts, that he could use a shower and they'll need clean sheets. That isn't quite the same, though, and it won't take that long. They'll still have the bulk of that time to themselves — maybe more, really. He doubts they'll get through all the groceries in just two days, after all. They could have done longer had they been willing to stay out longer, but they'll make it work. It's enough to know they have even that much time.

Finally, at J's nudge, S lifts his head enough to look at him. He doesn't pull away, really, J's arms around him too much of a comfort as he steadies, and he's a little embarrassed by how awful he must look, all flushed and tear-stained, but at least he's pulled himself together enough to manage that much. He sort of suspects J would disagree with the second point, anyway, if only because his own first thought is how beautiful J is, even like this. Still about as wrecked as S feels, but stunning all the same, and warm and alive and here. Of course, it's probably ridiculous, too, to have had a conversation like this in their current state, mostly undressed, but it isn't like they haven't been long since intimately acquainted with each other's bodies. If anything, he's less self-conscious about his now that they're not having sex than he was any of the times they were in the last couple of days, and more aware of being half-dressed than half-not. Even now, he wishes he didn't have to be, thinks it would somehow feel less strange if they were both fully unclothed, but he discards that thought as best he can. There's nothing to be done on that front, and now, seeing J attempt a smile, wouldn't be the time to bring it up even if there were. Whatever it takes, he said, and he meant it. This is the absolute least he'd do for J.

"We do," he says with a little nod and the similar start of a smile. "Maybe even the next day, too. Maybe." They can't stay hidden away in here forever. It's probably a bit dangerous to get so carried away in the idea of that, to want to just stay put the way he does. Even setting aside the part where he'll have to look for a job eventually, there are things they'll have to do before long, like getting J clothes, at least a coat, and things he wants to do, too, to show J around like he said and see the things he hasn't yet. As trying as it can be to be out in public, hiding what they are, it might be nice, he thinks, to go out and do something fun. They haven't in so, so long. But right now, between having had to deal with that pretending again for the first time since they were last together and how worn out he is from crying so hard, plus just the overwhelming relief of being with J at all, he would really not have to deal with venturing out into the world again particularly soon. For just a little while, it can't be such a bad thing to let themselves have this. It seems important, really. There's so much they have to talk about, and they're only just rebuilding their relationship. Giving themselves the space to do so is the best way for that to happen.

And he still doesn't want to get ahead of himself, but he doesn't think a couple of days is doing that. J said he wanted a few days to decide if he can stay here or not, which, really, just seems like all the more reason to do just that and stay here. They'll still need to do laundry soon, something that can't actually be put off now that he has no more clean sheets, but those are quick trips. "At least for a little while, it can be just us."

J won't count on the extra day, he decides. If they get it, he'll be thankful for it, but it's better to be surprised if they get that lucky. They'll have to go out again soon, he knows. There's too much else, probably, that they have to do, mundane tasks he's too tired to think of, and he can't go back to being a near complete shut-in. It's just overwhelming out there. He needs this, a pocket of quiet, just the two of them.

He can see S's face again, close and sweet. As much as J feels bad to see him looking like this, wrung out from all the crying J has caused, he's still glad to see him. It's a strange thing to think, when S hasn't gone anywhere this whole time, but he is, smiling a little wider, a little steadier. S's smile might be small, too, but it's there, and they're both trying, a little hope in both of them. J leans his forehead against S's for a moment, then tilts his head, giving him a quick, soft kiss.

"I love you," he says, leaning back again, though hardly at all, still holding S close. They have time — almost two full days at least, maybe more — and already he feels lighter. There's still sorrow and grief and guilt, but there's a sense of possibility, too, and a relief. So much of what has been said, he thinks they'll probably have to keep telling each other, but it's been things he needed to hear. He hopes that's true for S, too, that something he's said has given him some measure of peace. It's progress, and he never thought they'd have that.

"We can do this," he adds after a moment. He should have known that all along, but he knows now, with the same certainty he had when they were younger. They've overcome so much to be here and been through so much at each other's sides. Whatever mistakes he's made, in spite of the odds, they're here, with a real chance to get it right this time, and he knows they can. They have to. They're supposed to be together. "We'll be okay. I feel..." He hesitates, looking for the words, and then laughs. "Tired. But good. Lighter."

Just hearing that is enough to make everything that's just happened, the crying and the fear and trying to find words for things he's never known how to say, feel more than worthwhile. It would be anyway, really. No matter how much it might hurt, S wants to know these things; it's the only way they'll stand a chance. He can't let himself start thinking too much about how they should have done this a long time ago, but at least they're doing it now, trying their best, getting some things right. They must be. He would have believed the same anyway, that they could do this, mostly because he has to — not taking it for granted, but trusting that they at least have a shot at this — but hearing it from J is far more reassuring than convincing himself of it. Just to hear him sound optimistic at all is comforting, when for so long, he didn't, all his own attempts at it usually shot down. This is good. They're a mess, but they've managed this much, said things they've needed to say, and wound up better off for it. And, God, there are few things in this or any world that he appreciates half as much as J's smile and his laugh.

His own smile widens just a little, and he nods, not pulling away yet. "I feel exhausted," he agrees, pulling a face, nose scrunching as he ducks his head towards his shoulder, trying to use his shirt to dry one cheek, not particularly successful. Physically, he feels terrible, really, all worn out, his head aching. Emotionally, though, he feels better even than he did earlier. All of this is going to be a lot to take in, and none of it is going to be easy, but they've come so far already, and it's worth any struggle — it always has been, but it especially is now — if it means they get to be together. "But good, too."

Saying that, strangely, almost makes him feel like he could start crying again for an entirely different set of reasons this time, but he thinks he is, at last, too cried out for that. It's just been a long time since he felt half this good at all, and he never really thought he would again, especially not with a reason like this. Leaning back in, he steals another brief kiss, smile just a little shy when he draws back again. "We can. We will. That's all I want."

It's been a long time since J felt like this — steadier, more whole, like he's finally getting something fundamental right. This isn't like scrambling for praise, for crumbs of approval, or thinking he's done well only to doubt himself minutes later. It isn't the meager satisfaction, either, of getting something done just because it has to be done, dragging himself out to buy groceries or remembering to eat. This matters, more than anything else in his life ever has, and it's a long road to walk — he hopes, at least, that it will be — but their first steps seem surer than he's been in far too long.

He wouldn't be able to say that on his own, he knows that for certain. It's S's help that makes this possible, his presence that soothes J, his effort meeting J's own. It's his love that makes this worthwhile. Looking at him now, the way his expression shifts and softens, the way he smiles, the pulse of emotion that flickers across his face — it's worth it, all of this is worth it. J's never seen anyone so beautiful.

"Me too," he says, soft, shifting enough that he can reach S's face better to smooth his thumb over his cheeks, trying to wipe away what tears remain. He's flushed, a little puffy from crying, and J assumes he's just as much of a mess, but there's something endearing about it, even comforting. They've put their all into this. It isn't easy to say these things, but they did it, a good sign for all they have left to discuss. However much this hurt, S didn't shy away. Given how much J once feared that honesty would hurt S too much to be worth his speaking, how he was scared that the truths he had to tell would be too much for S, it feels good to see — to feel, S warm in his arms, leaning into him.

He's done his best to dry S's cheeks, but his hand doesn't do much good. Instead he lets it rest there, cupping S's face gently. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he says, still quiet. The moment feels like one that calls for hush, something just for them. "Meeting you, loving you. I won't give up on that again."

Even this hurts, in a way. Knowing that they could have, should have, been together all along, it's as painful as it is comforting. S just has to focus on the second part. He said as himself, they can't change the past, and they don't know what would have happened if they'd done things differently before anyway. Maybe it would have helped, or maybe it wouldn't have. The most important thing is that it's true now, that they have a chance to get it right. Closing his eyes for just a moment, leaning into the warmth of J's hand on his cheek, he nods. Agreeing with that doesn't take any thought at all, something that's been true for so many years now, that stayed true even in the face of how terribly everything wound up ending. It certainly is now, when this is so much more than he expected to be able to have again, happiness, in spite of all the crying he's just done, that he believed would be forever out of reach for him with J gone. Nothing, no one, could ever have compared or even come close. This — being with J, no matter what world they're in — is just where he belongs.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me, too," he replies, soft in turn. Although he wishes he could, he knows he can't argue with or echo the rest of it. He never did give up on them, holding onto any flimsy hope that they might be able to get back together, continuing to reach out when it was probably pathetic to do so. He got a lot wrong, but J walked away and put that wall up. J is here now, though, sounding so sweet that it's almost heartbreaking, and S believes him. When they're both trying so hard, when they both want this so badly, they have to be able to make it last. "Always have been. And this... this is even better."

It's a strange thing to say, to feel, when they've both been through hell to wind up here, not really the people they used to be, except, clearly, in the ways that count most. They were probably happier, or surface happier, anyway, when they were younger, riding the rush of a new relationship, unaware of what lay ahead of them. This is still better, though, for how impossible it is, for all they've gone through to wind up back at each other's side again, for a chance to get right what they didn't before. He took so much for granted back then — not J himself, but he just assumed they would always be together, not seeing just how bad things were until it was too late. This time, he'll know better. He'll cherish every goddamn second, and he'll make sure J knows it.

It's strange to think of this as in any way better. But then, their highs and lows have always been so closely intertwined, J thinks, maybe it just makes sense. From the first time they met, with J bruised and angry, to the time they moved in together, in the midst of all that grief, their happiness has always been the sweeter for being juxtaposed by how much they've had to endure. Even now, he's not sure he could ever say exactly when he fell in love with S; it was steady and inevitable. He does know, though, that it was impossible to ignore once they were living together, that he couldn't help it, no matter how guilty he felt for thinking about such things when S was grieving. Seeing him hurt like that, J wanted fiercely to protect him from as much as he could, as if doing so could somehow make up for the loss J could never end attempt to repair.

He failed, in the end, hurting S more than anyone else could, so maybe that makes sense, too — that it was failing him, hurting him, so terribly that brought J back to life in some way, even as that reawakened awareness led him to his death. He has a chance now to try again. Maybe that's better, then, to have a second chance — not a fresh start, because they're marked forever by all that came before, good and bad both. A new page, maybe, in an old book, somewhere to start writing another chapter where he thought there'd be none.

He didn't think he'd want that. That in itself awes him, that he could have been so miserable and so certain yesterday, that he could know even now how much pain still sits curled within him, and still he chooses to stay. For now, at least, it's the only thing that makes sense. He won't get out of this again, not without a fight.

"If I can just learn from my mistakes, we're set," he says wryly. That's only part of it and he knows it; his mistakes stem as much from the way his mind turns on him as anything else, and that's not something he knows how to control. But it's a start. Fingers brushing back through S's hair, he kisses him on the cheek. "I'm glad we get the chance." He shakes his head then. "Not glad. Grateful."

Again, S wishes he could try to argue with what J has said; again, he knows he can't, not really. It's better if he doesn't, probably, though the thought of that sits a little uneasily with him. Still, glossing over the worst parts of their past, the reasons they didn't make it before, isn't going to help them stay together this time. Pretending that J hasn't done terrible things, including to him, won't change the fact that he has. S knows all of that. He knows, and he loves J, wants to be with him, anyway. Maybe that's what makes it alright. Although there's a part of him that's going to have to grapple with the fact of that, unsure what it says about him, he knows it's true, and he knows it's right. Being with J this past day is the first time he's felt even close to whole since J first left. That — being here at all, having impossibly found their way back to each other — has to mean something. So does their already having gotten this far, trying so hard, wanting this so much.

"Both maybe," he says with a soft little smile, a bit uncertain, if only because he doesn't want to sound like he's speaking for J. "I am, anyway." He doesn't even know what or whom he's grateful to, really, only that he is. To J, in part, for trying to stay when it probably would have been easier not to, for giving him another shot, but to whatever force of destiny or luck brought them together, both the first time and now. He's so lucky. Before, he always knew he was, but he's that much more aware of it now, and that much luckier than he was then, too. It was one thing to find someone with whom he fit so well, to fall in love with his best friend, to have that friend love him too. It's another to beat all the odds, to defy death itself, to have a second chance with each other.

Quiet for a moment, he just looks, taking in how beautiful J is even now, indescribably fond, and weighing his words before he continues. "And I'll be here," he adds, a little questioning, a lot hopeful. "I'll... help you, if I can. When you'll let me. I think... I understand more now." Even if he doesn't know the whys of any of it, still not entirely sure what went wrong when, or why, other than some fault of S's own, J felt like he couldn't talk to or trust him, knowing what happened seems like half the battle. Maybe, if he really tries, if J lets him in enough, he can try to counter that before it happens again. "You can help me learn from mine, too."

It's so comforting that it hurts, J's heart aching even as he feels a sense of relief. His burdens haven't lifted; they don't weigh any less. But he's not alone. He thought he was, and he was such a fool to think that, and so lucky that S loves him in spite of how incredibly fucking stupid he is, on top of the long list of other flaws he carries with him. He might never past that, he knows, might never stop regretting how much time he wasted, thinking he could ever get over S. It's all the more reason to make sure it never happens again.

He nods, and even through the haze of melancholy that so often clings to him, he smiles, small and earnest. He knows that yesterday he questioned how S could help him, how he could possibly be anything but alone with all of this. It's strange and wonderful to learn so soon how he was wrong.

"We'll figure it out together," he says. "And I... I want to let you. I don't always understand what's happening in me or how to explain it, but... I'll try." There will be times he fails, he knows that, but he thinks S knows it, too, and somehow that's enough. He hesitates, tongue pressed between his teeth, seeking out the words. Part of him wants to admit how sure he was no one could love him after all he's done, not even S, and how much that helps, but he isn't ready to go there yet. If he starts crying again, he might drown. "You're already helping, though. Just being here, knowing you love me, it helps."

Hearing that, S's smile turns just the slightest touch bittersweet, though only for a moment, quickly overtaken by gentle, reassuring warmth. That should never have been in question, he thinks; J should never have had to doubt that he did and does and always will love him. He did, though, and S still doesn't know where or how he went so wrong for that to be the case, but at least he can do something about it now. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment before he draws back again, though he still doesn't go far, not yet ready to pull away. Before too long, they should probably get out of bed and cleaned up, and doing laundry has become far more imperative even than it was earlier, but he isn't sure he could move that much if he tried. He was already tired when they first got back to the apartment; he's utterly drained now, wanting nothing more than just to stay here, holding J and being held. For a little while longer, he thinks, it has to be alright to stay put. Even having made it to steadier ground again, it feels important, anyway, to keep saying these things, to reinforce them.

"I couldn't stop loving you if I tried," he says, his voice still quiet. "And I don't want to try." He could have tried. It probably would have been the smart thing, to attempt to cut all of that off when J first walked out. S is glad he didn't. There's no way it would have worked, and once again, he can't be sure what difference it would have made. The past is immutable now. Easy as it is to get caught up in regrets and what ifs, and it really, really is, nothing they do now can change it, and they can't determine what would have changed, either. They can make sure things go another way now, though. S means to try with all he's got to ensure that happens.

The rest of what crosses his mind, he bites back. Telling J that if nothing has succeeded in getting S to fall out of love with him now, then nothing ever could seems like it would only make things worse instead of better, drawing attention to the reasons why that's the case. It's true, but it isn't necessary, and he doesn't want to add to the guilt that he already knows J feels.

He gives J another little smile instead. "Even when you don't understand, I'll still be here for you. With you. I promise."

It still amazes J that S could love him at all. He thinks it always has, that he was always a little in awe that S would want to know him at all, and then that he would fall in love with J. When they were younger, he didn't question it, exactly, because it felt natural and right, but it amazed him, too, that that was possible. Now, though, even he doesn't know how to love himself; how anyone else can is beyond him. He was better at that, too, when they were younger, finding the good in himself, the reasons to be confident, even proud, if only because it felt as if everyone else wanted him not to, and that made him defiant. Maybe now, with S at his side, he can relearn that.

For now, it's enough that S loves him. Thank you feels like the wrong thing to say; he knows damn well that the love itself isn't a choice, even if staying is. It bears acknowledging, though. His hand at S's cheek, he draws him closer for a soft kiss, leaning his forehead against S's when he pulls back again. "I'm so lucky to have you," he murmurs. "I don't think I could do this without you."

It's a little too true, he realizes, but not until he's said it, thankful he's still close enough that S probably can't see his expression shift. His certainty that S would never again be part of his life might not have been the only reason he killed himself, but it certainly didn't help. But that doesn't seem fair to say so blatantly. If he feels again like he could be a danger to S, he needs both of them to be able to walk away, if only to put a bit of physical distance between them, and he can't risk S thinking he can't do that. S's safety is much more important than his own, and his own hinges on S's anyway. He doesn't know how to walk it back, though, without it being obvious that's what he's doing.

"It helps," he says, stumbling on the words. "Talking to you again, telling you — I feel like I used to tell you everything." He's not sure it's as good a segue as he needs it to be, but it's still something worth saying either way.

It isn't so much that it stings this time as it is that it makes a little flicker of fear spark back to life within him. As far as S is concerned, it will never come to that. J was his best friend before he was ever his boyfriend, and even if things don't work out between them — he wants them too so badly, but even if they don't — he still wouldn't just leave J to deal with all of this on his own. In some, any, capacity, he would want to be here, to help. Even so, he knows how fragile this is, and how unlikely it was that they found each other the way they did at all. For him to have been in exactly the right place to find J when he'd first arrived certainly doesn't detract from the sense he has that this is just right, meant to be, but it could so easily not have happened. And if it hadn't, they might well have missed each other entirely, never known the other was here at all. He could have been too late again.

When he's only just clawed his way back to something resembling calm, he can't let himself think too hard about that. He can't help, though, the way he holds J just a little more tightly again, the slightest tremble in his breath when he inhales. He's so fucking scared. He should probably just say that, but for him to talk about how afraid he is that J might kill himself again would almost certainly get the both of them all upset once more, and he doesn't want that. What J has already given him, a promise to try to stay, is more than he could have asked for, anyway, and S doesn't want to seem like he's pushing for even more. J has too many burdens to bear already without S adding to it by outright saying that he doesn't know how he could stand losing J again and that he's so afraid that he will. Given what he agreed to just minutes ago, it must be a little unfair to be holding that back, but it would seem equally so to give voice to it now. He's said enough on that front already.

Instead, he tries to focus on keeping his breathing steady, and on the warmth of J in his arms, and on the rest of what J has just said. "Me too," he says, with that same small smile. "I missed that. There were so many times... I would just instinctively start thinking, Oh, I should tell him this, or I should show him that, before I caught myself." It's been a long time, really, since he told J everything, but that wasn't entirely his own doing, and it still didn't curb that instinct. On particularly good days or particularly bad days or regarding anything at all, there was no one he wanted to share any of it with as much as J. Thinking that he can do so again now is comforting, really, even as it aches a bit for that to have to be the case at all.

He gently kisses J's cheek this time. "I'm glad it helps," he adds, a little softer, but hopeful, too. "I like when you tell me things. I like being with you."

It's so hard for J not to keep apologizing. It just hurts so much to know that they both ached for each other, that they were only separated because of J's stubborn pride and misguided decisions. Not knowing what else to do, he made the wrong choice, and committed to it, and it's only his own foolishness that caused their rift. He knows S isn't trying to make him feel guilty, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it, sorry to S and sorry to himself, too, for all he knows he's taken from them.

"I like being with you," he echoes, fingers brushing gently along S's cheek, tracing a path along his jaw. He bites his lip, shaking his head minutely. "I did that sometimes. I'd see things or hear a song and I'd want to share them with you, but I..." He shrugs, helpless, apologetic despite himself, grateful for the way S's hold on him tightened a moment ago. He pushed S away for so long, he craves the closeness even more than he used to. "You know me. Stupid and stubborn and too proud for my own good."

He doesn't know if that's better or worse — for S, at least. For him, there's no difference. He was an idiot, simple and complicated as that. But maybe it's better that S knows it was never J hating him, that he loved him all the while; and maybe it's worse to know that J should have come home, could have, and refused. He tried to put himself first, and messed up even that, digging in his heels and making everything worse. He shouldn't have had to nearly kill S to realize how wrong he'd been. He shouldn't have had to die to find his way back into S's arms.

Setting his jaw, he gives S a smile, half-grimace, and shakes his head again. "I'm here now," he says, as much to himself as to S. "I'm telling you now. I'll try to be stubborn for the right reasons this time. For us."

S lets out a little huff of a laugh at that, though he has to shut his eyes for a moment to make sure they don't well up again. It helps and it hurts, and this is just the way it's going to be for now, all the best things rendered painful by all they've been through. There's reassurance in being told again that J still thought about him, still loved him, while they were apart, that it wasn't just him uselessly hanging on, but it's still hard not to think about the fact that they could have been together all that time. They are now, J is here, and nothing matters half as much as that. All the more reason, S thinks, not to say the rest of what comes to mind, too — that it was bad enough thinking such things when J had moved out, but it was even worse after J died, when his thoughts would get ahead of themselves for a split second, leaving him to have to remind himself that he couldn't tell or show J anything anymore, that instinct somehow remaining even through the worst of his grief. They shared everything for so long that he supposes it makes sense, but it was especially painful all the same. At least before, he could pick up the phone and try to convince himself that there was a chance J might answer.

He doesn't have to do even that anymore. Neither of them has to be alone now. They can go back to telling each other, if not everything, then most things, be they important or ridiculous or somewhere in between. S wants that so much, missed his best friend as much as he missed his boyfriend, and he should, maybe, say that, but he's not sure he would be able to get the words out if he tried. The last thing he needs is to start crying again when he already feels so awful, physically speaking.

"I always loved that about you," he says instead, soft smile a little sheepish, though as he does, he isn't sure that's any better. It's true, though, and he has a vague feeling that that's one more thing he's tried to tell J before but that's never come out quite right. "How stubborn you are, how proud. Even when we were kids." Of course, he couldn't have known then that those same traits he admired so much would be part of what kept them apart, but maybe now, like J said, they can be put to better uses again. "And... we can share all those things again now. No matter how serious or how silly. Anything you want to tell me. I'm here."

Edited 2021-03-05 10:42 (UTC)

J's smile wavers slightly, though this time, at least, the wave of emotion that crashes over him is a pleasant one, his chest tight with affection. He can't remember, he realizes, the last time someone said something nice about him before he died. The professor complimented his work a couple times, and even that was astonishing in its rarity. His mother expressed her quiet concern for his wellbeing, wanting to make sure he was eating and sleeping when he was doing neither. But until he got here, until S found him again, he doesn't know if anyone's said anything nice about him since he left their studio. If they did, it must have been small, a pleasantry of some kind mentioned in passing, possibly insincere.

It's strange how it hurts even to feel good, to feel loved. He pouts a little, feigning petulance to push back against the feelings crowding him even as he gives into them. "Yah, why is that so nice?" he asks. "To be called stubborn." He huffs. "I think you and my mother are the only people who ever liked that about me." He can't do that. He can't think about her now. He was a terrible son those last few months — not for lack of love, nor even trying to push her away as he did with S, just distracted and distant. If he dwells on that now, he'll fall into despair again, and he can't let that happen now. He shakes his head. "And having someone to talk to. Having you. You know I never want to talk to anyone else anyway. I don't think I've talked this much since I moved out."

Once he gets started, once he has something to say, it can be difficult to stop him. Most of the time, though, it's easier to keep it all in his head or on the page, conversations had entirely with himself. There haven't been many people who cared to listen to him, and fewer still he thinks he could have trusted enough to open up to, and only S to whom he wanted to open up. Making friends isn't easy for him, and somewhere along the way, he stopped wanting to try. He had his best friend; why would he have needed anyone else?

He smiles, sheepish. "Ah, and now you won't be able to shut me up."

None of it is particularly surprising to hear. All of it is sort of bittersweet, as so much else has been. S hates that J was so alone even as he sort of likes that they both really only want to talk to each other. He's a little better, he thinks, at managing to be social than J is, but it isn't something he's very interested in. He can get by, but they're surface interactions, mostly, friendly without making friends. From the time he was young, he always felt like he didn't quite fit, even before he could begin to understand why. That is, he thinks, part of why he bonded with J the way he did; it never felt like that with him. Instead, it was the two of them against the world, especially as they got older, opened up to each other even more, became something more than friends. After J left, after he died, S was, if anything, that much more isolated. It's not like he could have told anyone why he was feeling the way he did. So it's nice, in a way, that that's still the case, that they really only want to talk to each other, but it's awful that they both had to be lonely, and awful, too, to know that there are so many people who would never even have given J a chance. S knows why that's so, but he's never understood it, not really, or found it the least bit fair. As far as he's concerned, it's their loss — and he likes a little bit, too, having seen what no one else bothered to try to see, and loving that stubbornness when others wouldn't have — but that doesn't make the fact of it any better.

He wouldn't know how to articulate any of it if he tried, and he's not sure it's worth trying. Similarly, given the way J mentions her and then moves past, S doesn't think he should say anything about J's mother. Thinking about it makes him feel a little guilty, actually, that he didn't keep in better touch with her or reach out more, especially when she was never anything but helpful after his own parents died, letting him stay there a while until he and J got their own place, but he wouldn't have known what to say. Likewise, he wouldn't know how to say that, and he suspects that talking about her too much would only upset J. Having only just calmed down, they don't need that now.

"Good," he says instead, his smile widening the slightest bit, one hand lifting to J's cheek so he can brush his thumb against the corner of J's mouth. "I wouldn't want to." A laugh nearly bursts out of him, which he puts down to the emotional roller coaster that the past while has been. "I don't think I've talked this much since you moved out, either."

Only in saying so does he realize that it's probably not actually true. He did plenty of talking the day he arrived here, in those couple of hours beforehand. Not wanting to get into that now either, S decides instead that it doesn't really count, given the extenuating circumstances of it; he wasn't just hanging out and having a friendly chat. Later he can start to tell J about some of that. None of it will change if he puts it off a while longer.

His expression softens instead. "And I do like it about you. I like it more when you aren't being stubborn about not talking to me, but still."

J laughs, quiet, leaning into S's hand. He'll have to be stubborn if he's going to survive. Even now, even easing back into happiness, he knows that. But S looks at him so sweetly and he knows, too, that he's got plenty of reason to try.

"Of course you like it," he says, gently teasing. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be able to put up with me." But then, he could say the same of S, after all. His stubbornness is harder to see at times, but once he sets his mind to something, he doesn't let go or let up until it's done. Maybe it's just that he chooses where to aim his tenacity more carefully than J does; J just latches onto anything. Still, he knows it's there, a persistence that got S through his grief as much as J's presence did, as far as he's concerned, and through everything needed to put their lives in motion after that. J huffs, smile broadening slightly. "I like how stubborn you are too."

It made things a bit worse, he thinks, towards the end, the two of them so intent, but anything would have, and if he's honest, he finds it an incredibly attractive trait. But they've both needed it to get by in a world that doesn't want much to do with them.

Leaning closer, he slips his hand into S's hair, pulling him toward him for a kiss, soft but lingering, enjoying kissing him simply for the sake of it, as if they haven't spent half the day doing just that. It occurs to him that he really should tell S more about what he likes about him; he spent long enough telling him all the things he disliked, after all. He's pretty sure he put stubborn somewhere on that list, too.

Even when he draws back, it's short-lived as he ducks his head forward for another kiss, briefer this time, but unable to resist. Or, anyway, he has no reason to bother resisting. "When we're not being stubborn about the same thing, anyway, it's very..." He narrows his eyes slightly, casting about for the right word, but it's hard to find just one that means cute and charming and hot all at the same time. "Appealing."

At that, S rolls his eyes, good-natured and teasing in turn. He doesn't really believe it, is the thing, and he doesn't want to say so and risk ruining this tenuous calm. J has just told him otherwise too many times. Maybe, he thinks, that's what his fear comes down to. He knows that J loves him; he just isn't sure that J likes him very much. Even after everything they've just said, it's hard to trust completely that J won't still change his mind about this after all. They just moved past all of that, though, and S has no interest in dragging them back into it now. He'll just have to give it time, he thinks, to settle back into trusting that this will last; he hopes, so fervently, that they get that chance. For now, though, the best thing seems to be to push it aside and leave it be, to lean into teasing instead, so grateful and relieved that they both seem to feel light enough to be able to do so at all.

Besides, though he knows he is stubborn too, he thinks it's far less positive a trait in himself than it is in J, whose persistence even when all the odds are stacked against him S has always admired. In himself, he thinks it's mostly just a tendency not to leave well enough alone. If he hadn't been so stupidly fucking stubborn, he might have actually left when J told him to that last time they saw each other, rather than staying and pushing, yet again, always pushing too hard, for too much. At least he can allow that, more recently, he's made something good come of it as well, not relenting in his pursuit of seeing some kind of justice done, making sure the truly guilty party paid for his crimes. Saying that, though, would probably be even worse than the rest of it, so S puts that aside, too. He would rather focus on J's smile and his laugh.

"So I guess all I have to do is try to be stubborn about different things than you and we're set," he says, light and self-deprecating and amused, shaking his head a little. "Wish I'd always known it would be that easy."

Edited 2021-03-05 14:14 (UTC)

J laughs, shaking his head at that. They've had their disagreements in the past, before disagreements turned into full-blown arguments, but mostly they've always seemed, to him at least, to be remarkably in sync. Maybe it's just that they really are two of a kind, or, at least, different parts of the same self. J has always been the one struggling to catch up to that fact, really. Even the first time they spoke, he didn't trust S's intentions; it was S who started the conversation, doggedly kind. It's always taken J time to catch up, to realize S gravitated to him because they need each other, because they both needed to find their way home.

"No, no," he says, "better if we're stubborn about the same things together." His smile widens, just shy of turning into an actual grin. "That is appealing." Fighting alongside each other, even in the smallest of ways, is infinitely preferable to simply fighting each other or, in J's case, often, being irritable about something S has the good sense to recognize isn't particularly important. When they're together, though, turned the same direction, intent on the same thing, nothing can stop them, he's sure of it. By that same token, they'll be fine. If he can keep his resolve, S can keep him on course.

His expression softens again, warm and fond. "And unstoppable," he says. "When it's you and me..." It always should have been, and he doubts he'll ever stop kicking himself for being such a fool as to forget that. But they have this back, and he won't let it go. "Ah, everyone else better watch out."

Seeing J smile like that, S knows immediately that it's more than worth everything he's trying to bury and ignore. So many times, that's all he's wanted, to do or say something that would prompt a smile from J, and for a long while there, it seemed like more often than not, he failed, only making things worse instead. This, then — he's barely even said anything, he doesn't think he can really take credit for it, but it feels like a little victory all the same, especially when, just minutes ago, J was crying into his shoulder. Besides, he's right, or at least S thinks he is. They've always been better together. At his own most insecure, he's sometimes wondered if it was when he started having to keep secrets that cracks started to form in their relationship, slowly but surely spreading, though he doesn't think he ever made too apparent that he was holding things back, at least not in that sense. It certainly couldn't have helped, though, that weight on his shoulders, the seed of fear it planted in him.

That won't happen this time. He won't let it. No one is going to come between them again, not if he can help it, so maybe his own stubbornness isn't such a bad thing after all, or at least it doesn't have to be. He can put it to good use now, willing to fight — alongside J and for J — who and whatever necessary to keep this. Having already lost J before, there's no way in hell he's going to give up easily now.

He smiles, too, just a little more tentative, not really sure of himself yet, but deeply earnest all the same. "Us against the world, right?" he agrees, knowing that it at least always felt like that to him. In a society that already looked down on J for the circumstances of his birth, as if he could have helped that in the slightest, and that would have done the same to both of them just for loving each other, they were up against so much just by nature of being themselves, even hiding their relationship. He always felt stronger for having someone to fight beside and a safe harbor to call home. S hopes the same might be true in turn. "Any world, now, I guess."

"Any world," J echoes. "Every world, every lifetime." If they're together now, he has to believe that's true. The only thing that can keep them apart is his choosing to part. They love each other too much to let anything else stop them.

But this is the lifetime he wants. He fucked up the last one; he won't do so this time, not if he can help it. He'll do whatever he has to do to stay here in S's arm, to keep him happy, even through all the tears.

He leans forward, forehead pressed to S's. They had so much to fight. He knows there have been times he felt like, of the two of them, S got the easier start, and maybe it's true, but they were both marked from birth, and then S lost both his parents. J never had a father to lose. It's been an uphill battle all this time, but they're here. It has to mean something. He'll make it mean something.

"I love you," he says, softer now. "Doesn't matter where we are as long as we're both here." He'd say again how lucky they are to have this chance, but how can that be true? Luck implies coincidence, and this can't be an accident. He's never really believed in some higher power, though he'd sneak into church on Sundays as a kid just to hear the organ and the choir. Something, though, gave them this impossible opportunity. He won't take that for granted.

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