[meme] test drive

[citycouncil]

Apparently, it's December!

Tag into this post with characters you're thinking of apping to the game (characters who are not currently in-game or currently reserved by someone else). It can be just a tag, a brief EP, whatever you want. You can be new to the game, or simply want to test out a fresh pup. Tag each other with these characters or those already in game, and have fun.

Also, please include the name of their canon somewhere in or on the comment or on their profile page.

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[beklemmt]

He's known, he's always known. Even before their feelings changed and grew, J knew. No one else has ever felt like that about him; no one ever could, nothing could compare to that. If he allows it, he could be consumed by that utterly, let himself be swept away by the enduring strength of that love. He holds himself as still as he can, heart racing, as he tries to make his brain work. It isn't right. No matter what S wants, it wouldn't be right. No matter what J wants. Knowing it to be true doesn't mean he should let himself give into it or hear it without protesting. Whether S wants to hear it or not, he'd be better off, safer, without J in his life.

But he feels the soft warmth of lips against his shoulder, at once too little and too much, drawing a shaky breath from him. It would be so easy, he thinks, to pull him closer. So easy to loosen his hold on S's arm, to reach instead for his legs and draw him into his lap, or else to turn his head a little more, to lift a hand to tilt S's face up to meet his own. So hard, too, to let himself break that last wall. He's never understood how S can be so sure of things, when all J can remember ever knowing is being at war with himself.

He closes his eyes tight and takes a breath, not quite deep enough, steadying himself. "I do," he whispers, "I know." It doesn't mean he gets it, exactly. He's never been half as special as S thought him, and no one is so remarkable they deserve forgiveness or love in the face of what he's done. But he wants it so desperately. Needs it, rather, something swooping low in his gut, a mix of longing and despair. No matter how sense rings out in his head, his body responds, shifting on the couch, rose-stained fingertips brushing along S's jaw to coax him to tip his head up. It's only then that he hesitates again, breath catching in his throat, surrender by inches. Is he too weak to follow through or too weak to stop himself? Both, maybe, close, so close, and unable to make himself move any further, frozen with the warmth of S's skin beneath his hand. Whatever S is saying now, whatever he yet feels, maybe this distance isn't really his to close after all. Eyes falling shut, he shudders. "You shouldn't."

[hismelody]

As much as he wishes he could, S can't deny that. He shouldn't feel like this for someone who tried to kill him, who did kill others, and if he has to have them, he shouldn't act on those feelings, either. It's incredibly easy, though, more so than anything has been in such a long time, to lift his head at J's prompting, to lean into the warmth of his hand, to press another kiss to the its heel, tasting salt and iron, tears and blood. That in itself should probably scare him, but it isn't fear that sets S's wounded heart pounding beneath the scars on his chest. So unbreachable moments before, the distance between them is negligible now, this proximity both familiar and not, comforting and daunting all at once. Impossible, too, when J was dead and S so certain that he would never get to do this again. Any notion that he shouldn't is unquestionably overridden by that.

S nods anyway, the motion slight and perceptible only because of their closeness. He knows he shouldn't, and in an odd way, it feels important to make sure that J knows that — not because he wants J to feel even guiltier than he evidently already does, but because he doesn't want to seem like he's going into this with his eyes closed, unaware or too dismissive of the awful truths he's learned. He shouldn't love the man who would have been his killer. But he does, has done so since long before the knife was plunged into his chest. If nothing has changed that so far, he doubts anything ever will.

"I know," he echoes, his voice tremulous and broken, easing forward just a little more, enough to rest his forehead against J's, the tips of their noses brushing. Later, maybe, he'll try to grapple with what this means for him. Right now, this is far more important, something he doesn't have it in him to turn away from, that he wants to hold onto while he can. He's lost J too many times to consider anything else. Finally, tender and sure and cautious all at once, not convinced that J won't change his mind, S leans forward to close that last bit of distance and let his mouth meet J's, his breath stuttering as he does.

[beklemmt]

It's not like he can't tell it's coming, and still the kiss makes J gasp a little, chest heaving suddenly with panic and relief. It's wrong, he knows it is, incredibly wrong to let S kiss him, to have initiated this at all after everything he's done. S shouldn't want this, shouldn't be kissing the man who nearly killed him, and J hates that, in some way he can't explain, that only makes him want it more.

He never expected them to reconcile, but, had he dared to imagine it, it certainly wouldn't have gone like this. For a moment, he just about melts into S, softened by the gentle brush of lips against his palm. The idea of him tasting the blood there is horrifying; the fact he doesn't turn away from that is more appealing than it has any right to be. The warmth of his lips, the taste of his mouth, is still familiar after all this time, his brief moment of pliancy giving way to hunger. He forgets he's supposed to be denying himself, that he doesn't have a right to this, a small desperate sound clawing its way out of his throat as he presses closer, deepening the kiss. Even as alarm bells sound in the back of his head, even knowing he shouldn't do this any more than S should, he lets himself go, fingers brushing back into S's hair, words hardly more than breath against his lips. "I missed you."

It's so much truer than he wants it to be, but it's hard to pretend otherwise now, and probably pointless. He'd thought leaving would help, make him a better composer, but he's not sure it actually did anything but leave him adrift, running in circles, trying to escape his own thoughts. He's being unfair, he knows he is, all the crueler for being so tender, but he can't bring himself to pull away, not yet.

[hismelody]

A part of him thinks he must have known that already, at least on some level. A part of him can't help but tremble upon hearing those words, relieved and overwhelmed, wanting and knowing he shouldn't want. Breathless from the surprising but welcome depth of J's kiss, S half-laughs, half-gasps, nodding in return without pulling away. "I missed you, too," he says, as if he hasn't already made that obvious, continuing to call J even when it seemed like he might never pick up. The months after he left were long and lonely; the time after he died was even worse, leaving S with the perpetual ache of grief, of longing, a twin hurt to and so much worse than the physical wounds from which he was recovering. After all of that, given half the chance, there's no way he could be anywhere but here right now, relearning what he could never have forgotten: the feel of J's mouth against his, the push of J's fingers through his hair, the muffled sound he makes into the kiss, what it's like to be touched by him in a way that doesn't involve violence.

Even he isn't entirely sure how he can do it, put himself so at risk, make himself so vulnerable after the last time they saw each other. S barely recovered then, and purely emotionally speaking, he doesn't know that he could take it if that happened again. Loving this much someone who's done the things J has is painful enough as it is. If he's going to hurt either way, then, it might as well be like this, with the only person left he loves, than depriving himself of what he wants, has wanted, has missed so badly. And if the worst does happen, well, it's probably better than always having to wonder if it would or not; at least he would know for certain that he was wrong.

He doesn't think he is, though. Foolish and naïve as it might be, he can't believe that J would be here with him like this — would have been so emotional, would have kept trying to discourage him — if he meant any harm. S isn't unafraid, not entirely, but what fear he has is like background noise, like static, present and continuous but easy to tune out and ignore. He kisses J again instead, his mouth, then its corner, then his cheek, breathing him in, the familiar scent of him just barely cutting through the lingering smell of smoke. "So much."

[beklemmt]

Even as that brings another pang of guilt, J hums out an acknowledgment. "I know," he says, "I'm sorry." In light of everything else, he thinks, staying away is probably the most forgivable thing he's done. Had he continued to do so, he would never have been able to hurt S again, at least. Still, he feels he owes him that much, some small sign he understands that he's hurt him in more ways than just physical. It's all the more reason for S not to want him, but the warm breath fanning over his skin makes it clear reason has little if anything to do with this.

It isn't reason, certainly, that has him turning his head, chasing S's mouth, his free hand slipping between them to rest against the gentle dip of S's waist, clutching at his shirt again. "This is very stupid," he sighs into his mouth, even as he tugs at the back of S's head, pulls him into him. It's the best warning he's able to make himself give now, pointing out the foolishness of this; he can't bring himself to say again that they shouldn't, not when he wants this so badly, longing to feel good again just for a little while.

It's been so long since he got to have this, and it's as addictive as ever. There's salt on S's lips when he kisses him, S's tears or his own or both. Everything feels heightened, dizzying, poised on the brink of some unknown edge with no way of knowing which way they'll fall. It occurs to him fleetingly that this shouldn't even be possible; he's dead. He was dead, anyway. He'd almost think this was a hallucination in the final throes of death, but S is too solid, too real, beneath his hands. How can he not kiss him when that's the case? "So stupid," he mumbles, and somehow, in his own ears, it sounds like I love you.

[hismelody]

The last thing S wants right now is another apology, but saying so feels like it would break some spell, cut too close to too many subjects that would shatter this delicate moment between them. There's so much they should say and so many things he doesn't know how to put into words. Focusing on this, holding onto it while it lasts, seems like the better choice, however stupid he knows J is right about it being. It's the most ill-advised thing he's done in a long time, and that includes everything else that's happened so far today. He doesn't care, desperate for whatever he can get, for better memories to store away and help counterbalance the last ones, for tangible proof beneath his hands that J is alive again and, despite how long he acted otherwise, that he wants this, too.

"Incredibly stupid," he agrees, but he's smiling, a little incredulous, as he does, before he closes that small distance again, shifting minutely on the couch, trying to get closer, to find a better angle, moving easily under the encouragement of J's hands. Whatever comes after this, he doesn't know and isn't sure he wants to yet. He would rather stay in this small space for as long as he can, impermanent as it must be, savoring the chance to be with the only person he's ever loved like this. Until today, he thought he never would again. Some of that, he's sure, was just fresh grief, so all-consuming that it felt like it would never fade, despite what he knows logically and from experience to be true. Mostly, though, it's just impossible to imagine ever feeling what he's felt for J for another person, or ever wanting to. Here, in this new apartment in this strange city, he's home for the first time in such a long time.

He kisses J a little more insistently, eyes half-shut, his heart hammering in his chest. Stupid and frightening and painful or not, S still can't remember when he last felt this good. Some time before J left, surely, and that might as well be — that is — another lifetime ago.

[beklemmt]

It should put him off, probably. As ever, S hears what he's saying and tosses it away, acknowledges that he's right and ignores it anyway. Nothing is as it should be, though, and everything is precisely as it ought to be, and, for now, it feels as if the acknowledgment satisfies any lingering duty he has to try and be the voice of reason. Besides, whatever else he might be, he's merely human, longing and lonely, and S is warm and familiar and pliant under his touch, and however bad they may have been for each other at times, they were also so good for each other. Maybe for just a little while, they can be that way again. Just until S comes to his senses or J finds himself too frightened, too panicked to continue, he tells himself. Let him take this boldness while he can.

"I mean it," he mumbles, but it's muffled by S's mouth, J's teeth grazing his lower lip, tugging at it. Possessive. He shouldn't be. He's the one who threw all this away in the first place, he doesn't get to claim anything, and yet he does. Perhaps with death comes a lifting of the veil, a need for honesty, forcing him to admit that he already knows the truth of it. S is his, his, for better or worse, whether he should be or not, whether they should want that or not. Love, like art, like music, has little enough to do with logic. He should have learned that a long time ago.

He lets go of S's hair only to reach down, hooking his hand under S's thigh, drawing his legs over his lap, or trying to, signaling for S to help him, to come closer. The poets and composers have always known, he reasons, the thin line between death and life, loss and desire. As much as his conscience says that a second life should be spent trying and failing to make up for the lives he took, his heart sings with the possibility of simply, at least for a moment, enjoying it. Even if this is all he's allowed, a few frantic kisses on an unfamiliar couch, it's more than he could have ever imagined he'd get again.

[hismelody]

Unbidden, a small, needy sound pulls its way from S's throat at the pull of J's teeth, that bite only serving to make him want more. He shouldn't, probably — should balk at any hint of roughness, after what J almost did to him — but instinct and familiarity have largely taken over, with a desperate edge that comes from knowing, deep down, that this will most likely be short-lived. After all that time apart, there's a heady rush to feeling so wanted, anyway, the proof of it in J's teeth and hands, unmistakable and addictive. At his prompting, seizing the slightest invitation, as he's always done, S nods, barely perceptible, and swings his leg over J's to settle on his lap.

It's better this way, closer. No longer at an awkward angle and with his hands free, he rests them against J's jaw, fond and wanting all at once, one thumb idly stroking J's cheek as he kisses him again. Both of them must still look a mess, he thinks distantly, tears drying on both of their faces, but right now, it's hard to see how it could matter. It isn't as if there's anyone around to see, and anyway, this seems like a much better use of their time than both sitting here crying.

At best, S knows, it's a stopgap, something to delay any further uncomfortable conversations, an act that's desperate and as stupid as J keeps saying it is. At worst — well, at worst, he's wrong about who J is, and he'll wind up paying the price for it. The longer they're together, though, and the longer he's here, pressed warm against him, the less likely he thinks that is. Although that makes it no less ill-advised, and not even close to what he anticipated when he first kissed J just moments before, he still can't shake the feeling of wanting to keep hold of this while he can. Everything else they have to deal with will still be there when they inevitably come to their senses. He hasn't felt this good in a long time, though, and he feels fairly certain that the same is true for both of them. However temporary, they can still make the most of this reprieve.

[beklemmt]

Again and again, it plays in his head, the certainty of their foolishness juxtaposed against the sweetness of the little sound he draws from S. He'd thought he'd forgotten such noises entirely, but it comes back to him suddenly, how good it felt to make him sound like that, to play him like the piano, to wring delicious melodies from him. The weight of S straddling him is both familiar and new, and maybe, just for now, he has reason to be grateful to be alive, reason to feel alive. He wants to hear him again, wants to hear more. He nips at his lip again, tongue sweeping over the barely there indent, already disappearing.

Even now, lost in this kiss and the loving caress at his cheek, he can't entirely contain the sense of shame that sweeps through him. In the end, though, it isn't strong enough to stop him, what he wants yet again winning against what he knows is right. It's ridiculous, profane, for him to feel this kind of desire after all they've been through, all he's done, but he can't help himself. It feels too good to be wanted, to be loved, at once worse and better for the fact that, this time, he knows S knows exactly who and what he is.

Earlier, he felt frozen in place, unable to close the distance. Now he can't seem to help himself, hands roaming everywhere he can reach, palming at his thighs, skimming down his back, his chest, anywhere that feels so unmistakably like S. It's fucked up, really, that this is the most accepted he's felt in a long, long time — the most, too, that he's wanted anyone since — well, since S — but it turns out that feeling is utterly irresistible. S is irresistible. The more J tried to run from him, the harder it was not to think about him. Now there's no thinking, no need for thought. Still, he draws back, just a little, breathing hard as he looks up at S, those wide eyes gone dark, his mouth and cheeks flushed like this. Even the tear tracks seem like perfection, evidence of his compassion, of his love. "So beautiful," J murmurs, tipping his head up again, pressing a kiss to S's jaw.

[hismelody]

The more J touches him, the more S wants to be touched. It's a dangerous feeling in its own right, not even for any fear of harm coming to him but just because he doesn't know what can or should or is going to happen here. Stopping would be the sensible thing to do, letting them both catch their breath and proceed with their wits about him. There's so much he needs to tell J that he hasn't had a chance to yet, too overwhelmed by his presence and all that it means to go about things the way he ought to have. It's difficult to think about any of that, though, with J's hands roaming over his thighs and chest, one of his own sliding back into J's hair, keeping him close. All the rest of it, he reasons absently, will be there whenever this comes to an end. Hopefully, they'll be more at ease with each other by then, not stumbling over and second-guessing words, liable to burst into tears at the slightest provocation.

His chest tightens all the same when J speaks, his eyes falling the rest of the way shut, if only for a moment, as a shuddering breath escapes him. What he wants to say is I love you, perpetually there on the tip of his tongue and increasingly difficult to hold back. For all that it's easier not to think too much like this, though, his mind not quite empty but increasingly filled with only thoughts of wanting more, he has just enough sense not to let it spill out for fear that it might be too much right now. He thinks J knows, anyway, unsaid as it might still have gone a few minutes before. Trusting that will have to be enough.

Trusting J will, too. S stops short of letting his head fall back, baring his throat like that, the memory of J's hands around it still present, if distant, but J's lips against his jaw feel as good as anything else, the words he's said too moving for something so simple, that S knows must have been said before. "You are," he counters gently, breathless as he takes in the sight of J. Even smudged with soot and having been crying, even though he doubts J would think so of himself or believe him if he said it, he's still the most beautiful thing S has ever seen. Swallowing hard, still breathing heavily, he leans in to catch J's mouth in another kiss, both to cut off any refutation and simply because he can't help it.

[beklemmt]

He's right, of course, that J disagrees. He opens his mouth to say as much, to protest that he's never been half as handsome as S, even on his best days. He's felt attractive before — sometimes been able to look in the mirror and objectively see how someone might think that. Mostly he's felt it just like this, with S pressed against him, both of them wanting and wanted. It's not the same, though, not exactly. He wished for a long time that he had half the talent S thinks he does, that he could have captured him in a song the way an artist might on a page, shaped a melody to echo those high cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the slight pout, the warm eyes.

And he'd say as much, or some malformed version of that, stuttered out between rough breaths, except then S's mouth is on his again and he forgets. "You," he whispers, echoes, a counterpoint and a promise and a hymn. His voice is at once rough and tender, and he'll say the wrong thing if he says anything more. Instead he presses back into the kiss, messy, increasingly desperate, a hand pressed to the small of S's back, tugging him flush against himself. The motion pulls a muffled whine from him, his breath catching again. Distantly, he thinks again this is wrong, but it's so much easier to focus on wanting S than to put into words all that he feels, even just the good things. Later, he can do that. Later he can go back to hating himself, to running, to whatever comes next when there should have been nothing at all. Now he just wants this, free hand carding through S's hair as he kisses him like it's the only way he can breathe.

[hismelody]

There's no sense in trying to dispute it, S thinks, when they'd have differing opinions anyway and when they could keep kissing instead. In an odd way, it's a relief, to have J kiss him like this, to know without question that he's wanted. For so long, J shut him out, tried to keep him at a distance. Maybe he still will again, but there's irrefutable evidence in the way J kisses him again and pulls him closer that, at least, these feelings haven't grown one-sided. All S can do is take the reassurance in stride, too preoccupied to do much more than that, returning desperation in the same measure that he receives it, longing both for more and to make this last. He thought he would never have this again, after all. If that winds up being true once more, he wants to remember with renewed clarity how J feels, how their bodies fit together.

He wants so much more than that, something he tried to keep at bay in the months they were apart but that's come crashing back to him now. Under the circumstances, he shouldn't — shouldn't want it or do it at all, shouldn't get that far ahead of himself — but it's so easy to get carried away by familiarity and desire. To think of mapping the whole of J's body with his hands and his mouth, of making each other fall apart, of finding some way to show J how beautiful he thinks he is, even if he still wouldn't believe it. It's dizzying, all of it, his hips rolling forward as he leans into the kiss with equal fervor, another small sound escaping him.

They should stop, probably, definitely, for so many reasons, but if they do, S isn't sure they'll ever get this back. At least for the moment, they've found something a little like peace, as strange as that word might be to describe something so desperate.

[beklemmt]

J gasps, shaky, and it is, he's pretty sure, a testament either to how long he's been on his own or how badly he's wanted S or both that even that small measure of friction gets so completely under his skin. This is bad, he knows it, in the back of his head like a mantra, much fainter than it should be. He moves his hands to S's hips, telling himself he means to keep him still, to slow him down, pulling him closer instead as he cants his hips up for just a moment. It's nothing at all and it's everything and he missed this, the physical pleasure, the emotional satisfaction of loving and being loved, the mental thrill of playing with each other, teasing.

A hand still at S's hip, he lifts the other, reaching blindly for one of S's, wanting to twine their fingers together, clasped palm to palm. A bed would be nice, he thinks absently, but they'd have to move for that, and he's too eager and too scared. Any small disruption might upend this whole thing, their need at once too strong and too fragile. His fingers slip higher, hooking on S's waistband, dipping under just enough to find skin with his fingertips. He knows it's stupid, that it doesn't make sense, that kisses won't solve anything, that sex won't solve anything. He also knows that, for once, he needs to stop thinking before he fucks everything up again.

Still, he can't be the one to ask. He can't bring himself to go that far. Instead, he pushes to make S do it, so they can both get what they want, hips rocking up against his again, hand sliding under his shirt to smooth over his waist, his stomach, his own twisting tight with want. It's more than he should do without explicit permission, without invitation, but he's hungry for every inch of skin he can reach.

[hismelody]

He should stop this. It would be the smarter thing to do, to put an end to it now, before they get too out of hand. In fact, it's probably ridiculous that after so much time apart, this is where they've picked up. In spite of knowing that, though, S can't bring himself to. It isn't that he wants to deny J. Were that all there was to it, he would do it, pull away and pull himself together and get back to more important conversations that should be happening right now. No, he can't find the will to for himself, not when he wants so much and when every brush of J's skin against his feels like pure electricity.

Although he may not have succumbed to his wounds, S thinks that he hasn't actually felt alive since J attacked him, not until now. That it's taken J somehow being alive again for him to do so isn't all that surprising. They were, he would say, although he thinks J might disagree on that front, too, always better together than apart. What they had wasn't perfect, but it was theirs, edges like puzzle pieces that he always thought fit together. Maybe it's selfish to believe that in spite of J's frequent unhappiness, or to want to hold onto J. Maybe being here now, perched in the lap of someone he loves so terribly, who's done such terrible things, makes him awful in his own right. He's still not ready to let go, though, and wonders if maybe, instead, this might do them both some good.

Gasping in an unsteady breath against J's mouth, he nods in silent but clear permission when J's hand moves under his shirt, his own free hand — the one not entwined with J's, an anchor now just as it was when they first found each other outside — dropping to the buttons of J's shirt. "Yes," he manages to say between kisses, nodding quickly and unsteadily, a question in his own eyes, before he's leaning back in again. What he means to be allowing, even he isn't entirely sure. He just wants whatever J will give him, whatever he can get. It would have been enough just to know that J is alive again, but presented with more, any opening at all, any sign that J might want him, too, S can't help the impulse to take it.

[beklemmt]

Why is that what it takes? J could probably pick it apart for hours, trying to unravel his own impulses. Even now, he can't help questioning himself, wondering what all of this says about him, about them. Their thinking is impaired, both of them, he knows it. They've been too lonely for too long, been through too much in too short a period of time, and they aren't thinking, they clearly aren't. If they were, S would never allow this. And yet, somehow, that one word is enough for J. Even when S's voice is thick and muffled, even when he can recognize the sound of S's need even still, it's also clear. This time, when he says yes, even if there was no question to answer, J at least can tell himself S knows what he's getting himself into. Or, at least, who he's getting into bed with. Or on couch with.

The particulars don't matter. Nothing matters, really, except that S is sure, even if he shouldn't be, and permission actually feels like permission, like J can reassure himself that, as absolutely idiotic as they're being, they aren't going into it entirely blind. Right? S had an out. He did, too. They could stop. They don't. It's fine. It isn't, but it is, and more than. "Yes," he answers, teeth grazing S's lip again, hand sliding higher still, palm dragging over nipple until he can feel the way S's heart races like his own. "Please." The word pulls out of him without his meaning it to, asking when he promised himself he wouldn't. Does it count if S agreed first? He doesn't know, he doesn't care. He doesn't even know what he's asking for — anything, everything, whatever he can get, foolish and greedy, a desperate thief. By all rights, this should be terrible, horrifying; they shouldn't want this, and somehow that in itself is starting to feel strangely arousing. He hasn't felt like he belonged anywhere beside the piano bench since he left their studio, and all he wants suddenly is to come home.

He squeezes S's hand, and that feels good, too, feels familiar — a pulse of reassurance, a silent I'm here, the way he used to when they were too tangled up in kissing to speak, or falling asleep at night, too tired for words. Or, more often towards the end, when he was too miserable to move, to speak, when there was nothing S could say that would have helped. That, at least, was something he could usually handle, a gentle reminder that he was loved. That he loves.

[hismelody]

It cuts through him immediately, that one word, the way J says please, drawing a quiet groan from S before he nods again, an agreement this time. Before, not long ago at all, he'd wanted to help, told J just to ask. This is different, of course, as selfish on S's own part as anything else, perhaps unforgivably so, but nothing else has been enough to stop him yet, and now is no exception. Even his nimble pianist's fingers fumble trying to undo buttons one-handed, so it's slower-going than he would like, especially given how distracted he is. J's palm is warm against his chest, his heart beating all the more rapidly for the feel of it, and what he wants is more, J's skin under his bare hands, not all of these clothes in the way. Still, as quickly as he can, he manages, imprecisely kissing J's lips and jaw as he does, too unwilling to draw his other hand away to get the job done more speedily.

With as sudden and surreal and frantic as this has been, their linked hands are something grounding. Familiar, too, the sort of thing he once loved — at times, the only contact he could get out of J — but easy not to think twice about until he didn't have it anymore. So many little things have been like that. S wants the chance to remember all of them, a thought that should scare him, should make him finally call this off or at least slow them down, but that doesn't register as being as dangerous as it is when he's so detached from his own thoughts.

He does, however, manage to consider absently that at least now, he might be able to coax J into borrowing some clean clothes, not staying in these singed, ashy ones. The idea makes him laugh, or it would if it didn't just come out muffled and breathless against J's skin, just another quiet sound between them.

Still, now, all that can stay clearly on his mind for longer than a moment is more. S would find some way to say so, or blurt it out somewhat incoherently, except that to do so, he would have to stop kissing J, and he would rather continue, leaning hungrily into it. His focus is split enough, anyway, and yet it's all on J, just him, just this. Trying to divide it in any further directions just seems counterproductive.

[beklemmt]

This is exactly why he had to put so much distance between them, J thinks hazily. He can never maintain his resolve around S, not for as long as he needs to. Getting out was the only way to do it — quit him completely, or, at least, that was the plan. Except he never quite managed to — brought him with him, he realizes now, always in his heart, under his skin. He wants so badly, wants so much, doesn't know how to ask for it. He'd have to put it into words to do so, swallow his pride and his shame alike.

Instead he waits. Not patiently, exactly, and not passively, but still, he lets S take the lead. His hand slides down again, both to keep S steady and to rest at his ass as he grinds up against him, moaning into S's mouth. It's not enough, but it's still good, still something. He draws their entangled hands towards them, turns his head to brush a kiss against the back of S's hand. They should stop, probably, or at least slow down. It's been a long time, and he's doing this all wrong, he thinks. It should be different, slower, sweeter, more romantic. But he wants, and he can feel S's fingers against his chest, fabric pulling away far, far too slowly, and he knows S wants this just as badly, and maybe that's romantic too. Maybe. To want each other so desperately in spite of everything, to need each other so much that they don't have the presence of mind to take their time or even to say what they want.

He rocks his hips again, encouraging, coaxing, finally letting go of S's hand so he can cup his jaw instead. Breath shallow, he runs his thumb gently along S's lip, stopping a moment just to look at him, lips parted, a mess before they've done hardly anything at all. He always liked that, need burning hot at the sight of S like this again. It always felt good to see him lose his composure and know that no one else could make it happen, not like this. "Beautiful," he says again, leaning up for another kiss, everything before and outside of this room, this moment, disappearing like smoke.

[hismelody]

Flushed and breathless, every movement of their hips or J's hands enough not to satisfy but to keep him wanting, S once more leans instinctively into J's palm when it settles over his jaw. He's shaking, just a little, with pure physical desire and a deeper, emotional longing. To think that everything will suddenly be put right because of this would be insane, far too naïve even for him. More than anything, though, that feels like what he wants. This is good in its own right, and still not nearly enough, and he knows they can never return to the way things were before with all the baggage between them now. They could start over, though. He's too far out of his head to consider what that would mean for them and too far gone to talk himself out of it, too. Even if they don't, it will still have been worth it for this, the softness of J's voice and the gentle brush of his thumb, that tender kiss against his own hand, all of which feel like affection rather than lust, or at least coupled with it.

His hand no longer linked with J's, it is, at least, a little easier to finish getting the buttons on his shirt undone, distracted as S by the kiss. Once he's finally managed with the last one, he slides his hands up the warm skin of J's chest, clumsily trying to push both shirt and suspenders off his shoulders when he reaches them. It's hardly anything, just a start, but at least there's more to touch now. Not even any concerns about J being skinnier than he remembers register like they should, like they probably will later. Everything they're putting off is just one more reason why this is a bad idea, but it still doesn't feel like one. S can't recall the last time he felt half this good, certain only that it was with J, some time before the end. That has to count for something. So does the way J looks at him, S feeling like he could break into pieces under that gaze, agonizing and incredible.

He hums into the kiss, somehow both content and desperate at once, rolling his own hips against J's once more, wanting to feel as much of him as he can. "Off," he manages to say between kisses when he draws back for air, tugging at the open edge of J's shirt to indicate what he means. "I want—"

[beklemmt]

J laughs. It's soft, sweet, and he knows he hasn't laughed and meant it in months, but there's something so absurdly endearing about S when he's like this. The things that sometimes annoy him in S are also the things he loves, the moments of impatience and certainty charming when they mean this, mean love and desire. The laugh dies in his throat though, giving way to a gasp, a whimper, at the way S's hands run over him. How is he supposed to think like this, the man he loves in his lap? How can he do anything but what's asked of him?

"What?" he prompts, sitting up a little more, pressing closer, S's hands between them, as he tries to slip free of his clothing. He's half-forgotten what he's been through, even as he's all the more aware because of it, skin electric with need and the shocking freedom of being alive in spite of it all. "Tell me what you want." He's breathless with it, shimmying out of his sleeves while trying to move as little as possible, anticipating an answer. It's not hard to guess what S wants, but he wants to hear it. He's still halfway tangled in his suspenders when he reaches for him again, arms wrapping around S's waist. He huffs against S's lips, teasing, hips rolling, though all he ends up doing is getting himself more worked up. The more he wants, at least, the less he has to think. "Just trying to get me to change clothes?"

If he's honest, this is probably the easiest way to do it, much faster than convincing him to accept help.

[hismelody]

If S could, he would bottle up the sound of that laugh and save it forever. As much as he can't remember when he last felt so good, so warm and wanted, he similarly can't remember the last time he heard J laugh like that. He always tried to see if he could coax it out of him, or even just a smile, but it so rarely seemed to work. Of course it only stands to reason now that it would happen when he wasn't trying to accomplish it at all, but it's hard to care about that when the sound of it is so nice, however short-lived it might be.

S laughs in turn, then, when J gets twisted in his clothes, the sight of it strangely endearing for something that's only making this take longer. "Yes," he says, as seriously as he can, which isn't very, leaning in to press another quick kiss to J's lips. "That was my plan all along." Even as a clear joke, he can't keep up the pretense for long, shaking his head, his hands still between them, splayed against J's chest.

"No," he continues, not waiting to be called out on such a clear untruth, his expression softening, fond once more and yet heated with want. "You. I want you." Whatever he can get, whatever J will give him, if it means feeling like this for a little while longer, he wants any and all of it. There are plenty of things he wants, but he doubts he could sort through them all well enough right now to find one to specify. Anything that means having J with him, and closer, and fewer clothes between them, is a good start.

[beklemmt]

There's so much sweetness in S's expression. Innocence, almost, though J knows that isn't quite right. S is far from innocent in his own way. Pure, maybe. Uncorrupted and honest. It's something he loves about him, even when he hates it — even now, when it reminds him how very different they are. He doesn't care about that. Or, at least, he can't let himself think about it, not now. More than sweetness, there's love there and need, so much affection in that gaze. For a moment, it almost brings J to his senses, the thought flickering through his mind: you don't deserve this. And it's true, he knows that, but he can't stop himself. He doesn't want to. He still doesn't really understand why S loves him, but then, his own lingering love is proof enough that sense doesn't give them any kind of control over these things. All he knows for sure is that S does love him, and he craves that, maybe because he doesn't deserve it.

His expression softens in turn, thumb rubbing semi-circles against the small of S's back. Knowing it is such a far cry from hearing it, from feeling the truth of it. For a split second, he thinks he might cry again, just from the sheer relief of being loved. "I'm here," he says quietly, arcing into S again, lips brushing against S's. I'm yours. His breath catches, tone turning fervent. "I want you. Need you." He's sorry it took him so long to say it again, even as he knows he was right to stay away. How can that possibly be true anyway? What could be more right than this? He can't even think far enough ahead to what he wants, specifically, to keep himself from kissing S again, feverish, biting back another needy sound. Anything. He'd take anything, do anything to get more of whatever S will give him.

[hismelody]

It isn't the first time they've been said so far today, but the words still send a shiver down S's spine, are still hard to believe if he stops to think about it too much. J is here, and that ought to be impossible. J is here, and that shouldn't mean falling into each other like this, ignoring all of the inherent complications and everything that's happened between them. S can't think of a single other thing he would rather do, though, or anywhere he would rather be than here in J's arms, being touched like he's loved, such a far cry from the last time their hands were on each other. This, it feels like he can't get enough of, both familiar and new for all the time they've been apart, relieving and terrifying, addictive and right in spite of the many reasons it shouldn't be, a dozen other things that he can't or doesn't care enough to try to find the words for. None of them matter enough to dwell on when he could be focused on this instead.

"You have me," he gasps into J's mouth, another unspoken I love you. What else would keep him here after everything, have him so badly wanting a man with blood both metaphorical and literal on his hands? There's something wrong with him, probably, except that this doesn't feel wrong at all. On the contrary, this feels like exactly the place where he's supposed to be, not least but not only because of the way J says he needs him. It's a powerful sensation, being wanted, needed, especially after having been kept at arm's length for so long. Equally desperate, groaning faintly as he does, he leans into the kiss, as if maybe doing so will let him somehow keep J and this strange peace they've found.

[beklemmt]

He shouldn't. He knows that. It feels like a curse and a miracle, to hear those words. There was a time when they weren't at all unusual, and even then, they gave him such a heady feeling. It's different now and still the same. Back then, they were young — not all that much younger than now, but so young, he's aged so much these last few months — and absurdly in love.

Well, maybe that isn't so different either. They're no less foolish for the time that's passed and they distance they've breached now, only foolish in new ways. S shouldn't say such things, shouldn't mean them, shouldn't be so pliant and needy in J's grasp. He wants so much suddenly, and even that is overwhelming. He hasn't let himself want anything but the music in so long. But isn't this that? Isn't S the only song he's ever really known? The low groan, the halting breath, the staccato of gasps puncturing the quiet, so he hardly knows which of them is playing which part. They were so good together. They can't ever be again, he knows that. It's stupid to try and recapture that feeling, even briefly, and yet he tries, and yet he thinks he manages, in some way. He wants to say it, sing it, whisper his love against S's skin. Still he holds it back. They've said it a dozen ways already, and still he doesn't dare. It isn't his to say first. He doesn't have the right to that. If he says it, S will respond in kind, and that isn't fair.

He slides his hands up S's back, beneath his shirt, fabric pooling around his wrists, the warm curve of his spine beneath his palms. He wants more than this and to stay in this moment for as long as he can all at once. Possibilities flicker through his mind, lightning quick, S pressed into the couch, the taste of his skin on J's tongue. He needs it, overwhelmed by desire. The last time he was on top of S was a nightmare. He wants to make this time a dream, wants S naked and trembling beneath him, all pleasure again, the way it used to be. It's the least he can do, make him feel good; it's one thing he knows he can get right.

"Wanna taste you," he murmurs. No right, he reminds himself. It's for S to decide what they do and don't get or do. They move at his pace. And yet, he can't stop the words from spilling out, low with want, as he ducks his head, trailing kisses along S's jaw, down to his throat. "All of you. Make you feel good, you're so good, so good for me." He doesn't even know how he means it, halfway babbling. Both ways, probably, the effect S has on him as a person and the way he reacts to J's words and touch, so beautifully responsive.

[hismelody]

Hearing those words, it's impossible not to react, a needy whine in his throat, his back arching under J's hands, bringing him closer still. S wants that, too, that and so much more; he wants it to be true that he's good for J, when he's tried to be but never been certain that he's managed it. At least right now, like this, it feels believable enough. They're both better off than they were when they first came up here, which ought to count for something. J probably wouldn't be saying it if it weren't, on some level, true. Half out of his head with desire, with the rush of emotion that today has been, he draws in a breath when J's mouth reaches his throat, his lips feeling infinitely better there than his hands did, S's fingers tangling in J's hair as a plea to continue. He wants everything, anything, wants to be reminded of how they were once and believe for even just a little while that they could be again, wants to keep hearing J talk like that and for him to make good on all the things he says he'd like to do. It's been so long since he heard J sound like this. Maybe it's just the result of distance and time, maybe everything is just heightened by months of grief, but it sounds even better than S remembered, intoxicating, beautiful.

"Yes," he says again, his voice rough and desperate. Right now, he would agree to anything, probably, not because he couldn't or isn't thinking clearly enough to say no, but just because he can barely begin to sort through his own desires anyway, and anything J wants sounds good to him. They've lost so much time. Trying to make a little of that up can't, he thinks, be such a terrible thing after all. Nothing that has J sounding like this, touching him like this could be, a little more like the man S remembers, a little less like the one he'd become at the end. At least if this doesn't end well, he'll have this to hold onto.

Too many layers remain between them still, but getting his own shirt out of the way, letting J's hands move over the rest of him, would require letting go, and S can't bring himself to do so yet. He shifts a little on J's lap instead, a useless attempt at moving closer, serving only to draw another quiet gasp from him. "Of course. Please."

[beklemmt]

Please. S already sounds half-gone, but so pretty like this, so sweet. J thought he'd remembered this perfectly, always torn between trying to put it out of his head and conjuring up the ghost of this in his mind when he was alone in bed. It was never enough, but this is more, so much more, and still he wants, greedy. S's skin is perfect under his mouth, salt and sweet and clean and him as J sucks a bruise into the curve of his neck. It makes J aware again of how much of a mess he is himself, how he'll probably taste like fire and death, and that just makes him want S more. He'll never be clean, never be right, and still it feels like, just for now, he can touch that kind of goodness, keep a little of it for himself.

Even the way S moves against him, just a simple attempt to get closer, draws a groan from him, nerves alight with need. S has to be able to feel it, how hard he already is beneath him, how he has to be shaking with it. He barely knows what to do next, how to keep this moving forward when he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't trust his hands to be steady enough now, anyway, to undo S's shirt, and he doesn't want S to let go of him, likes the insistent pull of fingers in his hair. He wants that, more, wants to feel the way they curl against his scalp, nails biting as S's hips buck. The world is at once more vibrant and more hazy than it's been in a long while, time shifting back and forth, now and then, past and future and never present, frenzied. He settles on a compromise. Lifting his head for another messy kiss, he fumbles for the button at S's waistband, only gets the zipper down partway before he slips his hand inside, a whine of his own rising up as if he's the one being touched. "Clothes off," he whispers, forgetting again that he's not supposed to be asking for anything at all, never mind demanding.