cityarcade | [meme] test drive

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meme: test drive

[meme] test drive

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.

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S wishes he could refute that, say that J doesn't have to be better than he already is or has been, but he knows that's not quite right. At the very least, doing so would most likely send them back in another darker direction, and he means to keep that at bay as long as he can, the instinct to want to protect J, sometimes even from J himself, as strong as it's ever been. While S would take whatever he could get here — a desperate, pathetic instinct, but, God, he's missed J so much — he can't change the fact that J is the one who left before any more than he can change the things he did in his last few months. As long as better involves a lack of murder, and a lack of attempting to murder him, that's all he could really ask for.

He thinks it will, too, finds it impossible to believe anything else right now. Already it's become more than clear enough that J can barely stand to live with the blood on his hands. And this time, S will be here. While he doesn't know how good he's ever actually been for J, not really, he knows he'll be better than someone who pushed J to murder and madness, wringing the life out of him and then profiting from his work. It's a low bar to clear, but they have to start somewhere. At least they'll already be better off than the last time they saw each other before today.

These are all things that S should eventually say, but they can wait. With every little bit of happiness they can find feeling so hard-won and tenuous, it seems better to leave it for a moment when they're more settled. Bringing it up would only cause them both more strife, and he enjoys too much the sight of J smiling like that, something S hadn't seen in far too long before today.

"I will, too," he says instead, what seems like the least he can offer in return. It's such an uncertain promise, not because he doesn't want to make it, but because he's always tried so hard and still never quite known what to do, but that doesn't mean he won't keep trying. Attempting to both lean into J's touch and return the kiss is difficult when he's half-turned around, so he lifts his own hand instead, resting it over J's where it sits on his cheek, holding it gently in place. "We'll figure it out. I'm with you now. For the good and the bad."

There's so much he should say. J is uncomfortably aware of this. He's not eager to discuss most of it, but they'll have to eventually. They can't just stay in this peaceful little bubble of endearments, not forever. Better they talk about it soon than to have everything come out in the heat of the moment when he next unravels, as he knows he will. It's daunting, to look ahead and know that existence comes with a ceaseless burden of guilt and self-loathing on top of all the doubt and jealousy that's plagued him for years. Logically, he knows he can make it slightly easier on both of them then if he talks now.

But they've been apart for so long. It's been too long by far since he last made S happy. Already he knows there will be things he has to leave out for both their sakes anyway; waiting just gives him time to figure out what. No details, he's already sure of that. S has his journal; he already knows more than he should have to. But they'll still have to face that he did what he did. If nothing else, the scars he left on S will ensure that.

"There's a lot of bad," he murmurs, thumb brushing gently along S's cheek. It's a massive understatement, but they both know that. No point in belaboring it. "Too much. This won't be easy."

As much as he might like to, S can't deny that, either, can only nod in acknowledgment. It's probably better that he doesn't try to pretend that's not the case or downplay any of it, anyway. He's going into this with his eyes open, aware of the things J has done and of the difficulties in being with him even before then. Better, too, for J to know that he knows it, that he's not walking into this blindly or with any misconceptions about the current state they're in being the one they'll always be in. If he wanted easy, there would be no reason for him to be here. However much what J has said might be true, though, S also knows that it would be infinitely more difficult to stay away, especially after everything that's happened. He couldn't bear to leave J alone any more than he could pass up this impossible chance they have together. For him, it's worth the trouble; it always has been, and it always will be.

"I know it won't be," he says, calm and assured as ever, but soft and understanding, too. "I'm not expecting otherwise." He's not even sure it will be easy for him, except in the way that loving J always is. Having to contend with the fact that the man he loves has murdered people — whoever else guided him into it and therefore is deserving of the blame — isn't something that's going to happen easily, or overnight. What S is certain of, though, is that in spite of all of the complications, right here is exactly where he wants to be.

It would probably sound too trite to say it as flits through his head — I don't want easy, I want you — but the sentiment is true regardless. "This is still the only place I want to be."

J nods, both acknowledgment and agreement. He can't say the same with complete honesty, not when there's a part of him still convinced it might be better for him to be nothing but ash, but he knows, at least, that S means it. He wouldn't still be here, J reminds himself, if he didn't. S has had plenty of chances already to turn him away.

Even so, it's hard not to wonder if that will always be the case. As much as he believes S thinks so, he can't be sure. "I know," he says. "But if..." He draws in a slow, deep breath, exhaling heavily. "You'll say you won't. But if you did change your mind — if it's too much... I'll understand." If the idea of living with himself is a struggle, he can only imagine that, in time, the same might be true for S. He's never been an easy person to love. With all he's done, even to S himself alone, he can easily imagine how much harder he's made it. Already he wonders if he can even stay here, really, in this apartment with S, as he already knows S will ask him to do. How can S possibly sleep easy with his would-be killer in his bed?

There's more he wants to ask, but he's not ready, not yet. Too much too fast will tear this moment apart. He's already made the mood heavier. He can't wreck it completely, not yet. Again he sighs, managing a small smile — a touch grim, but still there. "I hope you won't, but I'll understand."

Although his instinct, exactly as J has predicted, is to insist that he won't change his mind, S knows that it wouldn't be entirely fair to do so. That promise isn't one he can make with absolute certainty. If he were going to have a problem — going to feel so unsafe in J's presence or so disturbed by the things J has done that he might not be able to do this after all — he thinks it would have happened already. There's no real way to know that now, though, and confident as he might be, safe as he might feel here in J's arms, in spite of everything, he won't commit to something he might not be able to live up to. That would be even crueler than changing his mind after all of this would in the first place.

What he does know is that, even if he can't do this, he still won't leave J alone. Distantly, he's aware that there's probably something deeply wrong with that, that he shouldn't be so afraid of what J might do to himself if left on his own here that S can't bear to turn away from him. For now, though, he doesn't care. It's worth it. He's not sure he was right before when he told J that nothing comes without a cost, but it's true enough here, and to have this again, to keep J safe when that shouldn't have even been possible anymore, that cost is one he'll keep paying, and gladly.

"Okay," he says, slowly and carefully, holding J's gaze so he'll know that he means it, and that he understands the out being offered to him here. He smiles faintly in turn, then, hoping to be reassuring, or to at least keep J smiling a little, too. "I don't think I will, but okay."

Edited 2020-12-19 00:09 (UTC)

It does keep J smiling, his expression softening a little again with relief. If that time comes, he's not entirely sure S will do as he says he will, but at least he's done this much. It helps J feel just a tiny bit more relaxed, having the hope that S will leave him if he needs to. As much as he doesn't want to be alone again, he couldn't bear feeling he was keeping S trapped. He's been through that before, let himself worry S only stayed out of nostalgia or obligation. If he thought he was scaring S on top of that, it would be too much.

But this helps. "Thank you," he says. He wants to ask for more, extract a promise that S will turn him in if he suspects J has hurt anyone again, but that feels too heavy, too frightening, to bring up yet. He hopes it won't be necessary anyway. The idea of killing again makes him sick. But he also knows that, in the lulls between attacks, he felt that, too, horrified by himself until desperation set in again, too strong to ignore. He wanted so badly to stop that death seemed like the only option, but how can he say for sure he won't do anything? His mind is so often a stranger to him.

Still, there's one thing he's certain of. He couldn't possibly bear to hurt S again, not like that. "I just want you to be safe," he says. "I want you to be happy." He huffs, quiet, fond. "I love you." He said it before, earlier today, but he only half-remembers it already, so heartbroken when he said it. That doesn't feel right. S should hear it like this, the two of them tangled up so tenderly again.

As irrational as it may be and just as unlikely to last, S thinks that, at least right now, he's both of those things, safe here in J's arms, happier than he's been in months. It isn't without reservation, of course. He knows he has to be careful here, though it's painful to consider that; there's too much between them for that happiness to be without reservation. Still, it's a good feeling, better still for hearing those words come from J's mouth, so soft and sweet. No matter how insensible this is, it can't be as bad an idea as it logic would dictate it ought to be with that being the case.

Besides, J loves him. He'd known that, on some level, the writing in J's journal making that clear enough, but it's different to hear it and to have it said like this, in a less fraught moment, not intermingled with talk of J wanting to die. It's lighter now, the sound of it in J's voice something he tries to commit to memory, as beautiful as any song he's ever heard. His head still half-turned around, he leans in a little, not quite enough for another kiss, his nose brushing against J's.

"I love you," he echoes, still with that same small smile, his voice gentle, affectionate. "And that's what I want for you, too." In some ways, it feels like all he's ever wanted, for J to be safe and happy. The latter has seemed so out of reach the last few years, despite all of S's efforts to the contrary. Now, it feels like it might be even harder to attain, with all the guilt that he knows J is shouldering. But there's promise in this, too, a chance for the two of them to make it work together, and that means something. Even if there weren't, S still doesn't think that would be enough to deter him, not really. "We can try, right?"

Like everything else, that's complicated. They can try, of course they can, but J isn't sure how effective it will be in the end. As it is, he's already working hard to push back the notion that this is a mistake and it would be better for S to lose him sooner rather than later. S is happy now. It's enough. For now, at least, it has to be enough.

It's different for himself, though. He is, for the moment, safe. He can't say he isn't happy either. This is the happiest he's been in a long time, and he won't do S the injustice of pretending otherwise. But real, lasting happiness has long eluded him, and the last several months won't make it any easier to attain. When he's honest, too, he can admit he's always found it easier to sink into the despair rather than fighting it. There's nothing pleasant about letting himself get pulled under, into the darkness, but there's a kind of relief in not pushing back. Being here, doing this, means having to push.

But S is so sweet, the softest brush of his nose against J's a gentle reminder of how very close he is. Even before J left their studio, no matter what S said, he'd begun to see himself as unlovable. That should be truer now than before, but this feels like proof that maybe he was wrong after all. S wouldn't be here in his arms if it weren't. That he still loves J, that he trusts him enough to be here now — he thinks now he must have underestimated just how much S really loved him all along. He's known for a long time how strong S is; if anything, that's been galling, in the past, to see how S has survived in the face of the unimaginable and kept going when J can barely make it through a day without struggling sometimes. He just didn't realize strength could look like this.

"We can try," he echoes. However pessimistic he might be about the outcome, he'll bite his tongue for now. "We will. We are." He huffs again, drawing back to kiss the tip of S's nose instead. He considers suggesting he go ahead and change clothes now, but he's not about to do so without first getting clean, and he doesn't feel steady enough to be left alone in the shower long enough for that, nor does he trust himself to handle it well if S were to follow him. "So what comes next?" he asks instead.

The truth is, he doesn't know. Before today, he thought he would simply just keep going, the habit of living and going through the motions enough to get him from one day to the next until, eventually, he would have a sort of life here. S can't tell what that would have looked like, though, and trying to determine what comes next now, in this wildly unforeseen turn of events, feels impossible. Part of him doesn't even want to move, worried that, if he does, this tenuous peace they've found, this almost-contentment, will come crashing down around them. He's the happiest he's been in such a long time, but he feels raw, too, his nerves worn thin from emotion and fear. All he really wants is to stay where he is, wrapped up in J's arms, still savoring the closeness and the warmth of him like they might be on borrowed time.

Practically speaking, though, they can't stay here forever. There's still so much he needs to tell J, things they need to figure out and do. Sitting on the couch, both disheveled and partly undressed from their frantic, feverish attempt to have sex earlier, isn't going to help either of them all that much. J still has blood on his hands and ash on his clothes from the fire that killed him, and S doesn't know when he last slept or ate, wanting so badly to take care of J now that he has a chance to. If waking up after almost dying was a painful, disorienting experience for him, he can only imagine that the same is true of coming to after actually dying. Then there's this place to explain, and still, in the back of his head, the knowledge of everything that happened after J's death, the things that he knows that J doesn't, that he can't and doesn't intend to keep secret — even for him, it's overwhelming, and not just because J's promise to try to stay alive is still so new and delicate.

When he can't come up with a good place to start, though, he shrugs, figuring he should just be straightforward about it. "I'm not sure," he admits, though he's still smiling, small and lopsided, mostly for the easy affection in the kiss J presses against his nose. "We could get you cleaned up, or... I don't know if you're hungry at all." He suspects that it might have been a while since J has eaten, but he's not sure how appealing food might be at a time like this. A little helpless, if quietly amused, he huffs out a laugh. "I wasn't exactly expecting any of this to happen."

He very nearly makes a joke of that, which J supposes is probably progress. There have been too many times when S tried to make light of things that were, to him, deadly serious; surely it's a good sign to make a joke, or nearly, about his own death? Then again, dark humor has always been more his style. Maybe it's not such a surprise at all that he might. In any case, he hardly thinks S is ready to be teased about not expecting his ex (previously ex, he thinks, and that's still a surprise in itself) to rise from the dead.

Instead he takes a moment to consider those possibilities, humming thoughtfully to himself, soft and brief. Honestly, it's nice to know that S is as unsure as he is. It's been a more than usually disorienting day in a long string of disorienting days. If he really thinks about it, he can't quite remember when he last ate or even what it was, just something quick and cheap that blended into the background, eaten merely to keep himself able to work. That, too, he doesn't say. Anyway, S knows him well enough, he's sure, to have guessed as much. When he's particularly unhappy or focused, he never has much of an appetite. He should eat something, not least because the other option is one he's already told himself isn't the best course of action yet.

All of this is still too strange, though, too new for him to feel ready for that. "Being clean would be nice," he allows. Now that he's feeling a touch more at ease, he's more aware of his physical state. Dried blood always makes him feel unsettled, something annoyingly tacky about the way it sticks to his hands. Ash isn't exactly comfortable either. He probably smells terrible, for that matter. He licks his lip, cautious, not sure how to put this. "But I don't know..." He takes a breath and shrugs, not quite able to look S in the eyes now. "I'm not ready to be alone." Even happy, his nerves are agitated. He knows all too well how suddenly and sharply his moods can change, his grasp on stability shaky even on his better days. This is hardly one of those.

That said, it occurs to him abruptly, he might not feel any more secure if S were to have him follow him into a kitchen. It's probably better for them both if he doesn't get anywhere near knives for a while.

In an odd, roundabout way, it's a relief to hear. Not because of what it means, of course — the unspoken truth there, the one apparent in the way J avoids his gaze, makes S feel faintly ill — but just because S won't have to push to stay close now, not having intended to leave J alone anyway and not wanting to draw too much attention to the fact of that. It isn't that he wants to get too close, to deny J his space, to be suffocating, like J spat at him the last time they saw each other before today. He just can't help it if he's still afraid. Just because J has, for the time being, said he'll try to stay doesn't mean that couldn't still change in the span of a moment. That J seems to know that himself — well, it makes S a little uneasy, but it spares him the discomfort of having to bring it up or talk around it, too. It can just exist, quietly understood, between the two of them.

Expression softening, he nods, gently reaching up brush J's hair away from his eyes a bit. "I could draw a bath," he offers, with another ghost of a smile then, not wanting to make the moment or that implicit truth too weighty. "Sit with you." It might be less awkward, less obvious, than staying in the room while J showers. Were this another time, when they still shared that studio, before J left and before what became of them both following that, he would just suggest that they shower together, but that doesn't seem quite right now. Familiar as it would be, S remembers too well how desperate they were to get their hands on each other not very long ago, and the sharp, sudden turn things took when he removed his shirt. Probably showering together would be much the same — a little too intimate, a little too present a reminder of things that they don't need to be dwelling on right now.

All of these solutions are, he knows, temporary ones. He can't spend every second of his life watching J, afraid that the moment he turns his back, J will try to kill himself, or even him, again. For that matter, if J is going to stay with him, as S hopes he will, at least for a little while, they're probably going to have to deal with the fact that J seemingly can't bear to see him without a shirt on. It can wait, though, until they're on steadier ground.

There are times, J's found, when he feels more like water than fire, ebbing in and out, moods always shifting, awareness shifting. He's not nearly as predictable, though, as the ocean, not as steady as a river. So perhaps it's fire after all, snapping and biting, eating everything that gets in its path, hard to track or control — but necessary, sometimes, to start everything anew, to help things grow.

Well, maybe not necessary, not him, at least, but there's possibility in the ashes, isn't there?

There's possibility in the gentle brush of S's hand, ghosting past his skin, through his hair. He glances over again, relieved. He hates it fiercely, having to keep S aware of how on edge he still is — or, anyway, how aware he is himself of how easily that could be the case. That's one good thing about being alone: not having to shelter someone else from the worst of it. S might want to know, but that doesn't make it easy to tell him or easy to see the fear and concern in his eyes. Even now he can see it. His gaze is so soft, so sweet, but there's worry there, too. J knows him too well to miss it. But it's a relief, really, to be able to say it, indirectly if nothing else, and to have S react calmly. He's good at that, true, usually, but today's been so fraught, and J knows it won't take much to set himself off again. He needs calm.

And the suggestion is a relief, too, a way to stay close without risking getting too caught up in each other again and without his having to see... all that. Sooner or later, he knows, he's going to have to face what he did. It's not like S keeping his clothes on means J isn't still aware of the scars now that he's seen them. But looking directly at them, seeing the physical evidence of what he did, makes him too sick to fathom doing just yet. Like this, at least, he can have company to keep him grounded without having to grapple with all of that yet. Another time, he knows, even that might have annoyed him, made him feel too much like a watched child. If he's honest, though, right now, that's what he needs to be if he's going to keep his promise to try.

So he nods, too, leaning into S's touch, eyes fluttering shut. It's such a small gesture but so soothing. "Sounds nice," he says. "I'd like that."

Again, S has that small, gratifying feeling of having gotten something right here, relieved and a little bit pleased alongside it. With J, it can be hard to tell what might go over well or not at all, what attempts at levity might actually lift his spirits or might cause him to lash out, what solutions might actually work and what J might take offense to instead. He's used to that, really, but everything seems particularly fragile here and now, and it's all the more necessary not to misstep as a result. This seems good, too, he thinks. He can stay with J without the two of them getting carried away, as nice as he thinks it would be to pick up where they left off before; he can be clothed but still present without being too overtly on watch. He can take care of J, just a little bit, like he's wanted to practically since he first saw him on the street earlier, like he's tried to do for such a long time.

"Good," he says, his smile just a little wider, small and encouraging and fond. It's something, it's a start. Leaning in, he steals one more quick kiss, just a brush of his lips against J's, then finally turns again, not yet actually pulling away, but beginning to redo the buttons on his open shirt. It's the least he can do, not wanting to draw any more attention to the scars underneath just yet, and getting dressed while still sitting on the couch, his back against J's chest, seems like the best way to accomplish that. At least it's easier than undoing them was, both of his hands freed now, his expression turning just the slightest bit self-conscious, almost flustered, as he fastens his pants. It's a little embarrassing now, how desperate he was not so very long ago and the fact that he's been sitting here still semi-undressed since then. At the same time, part of him wants to tell J that it felt good to be touched again, apparent as that must have been at the time. He regrets how it ended, that he hadn't considered what taking off his shirt might do, but ill-advised as it may have been, he can't say he's sorry for what led up to it.

He doesn't say any of it at all. There will be time to work through all of that later, too.

"I have clean clothes you can borrow after," he tells J instead, glancing back quickly as he finally, reluctantly starts to get to his feet. He thinks he might have said so before, but it's hard to be sure now, everything all a haze, lost in the lust and fright and tears of this past while. "They should fit you."

Even like this, J is uneasy, too conscious of what he's done. With S tucked against him, he sees the movement of his hands but not much of his chest itself, not any of the part that's scarred, but he's still aware of it. With S busying himself with that, his other hand falls to his side, nails digging into his palm to steady himself. It can't be like this. He has to stay calm. This isn't going away. He did this, and it's not going away, so there's no point in letting himself get worked up over it. He's got to get used to it. Learn to live with it, anyway.

Just not yet.

He swallows hard, focusing on the dull pain of his nails pressing into his skin to keep himself steady. It surprises him a little, then, when S starts to pull away — slowly, at least, enough that J processes what's happening before that, too, can unnerve him. He blinks quickly up at him, readjusting to the sudden absence of S against him. It's a timely distraction, at least, giving him something new to turn his attention to before he can unravel too much.

Granted, he's still not thrilled by what he comes back to, suddenly conscious that he's only half-dressed himself. It doesn't matter, he reminds himself. He's about to get in the bath anyway. There's no point even in putting his shirt back on, though, as he gets to his feet and reaches behind himself for it, he ends up holding it to his chest. "They usually do," he says, moving to stand beside S. "I've stolen enough of yours to know." He was never as orderly, never as good at remembering to keep his things clean. Besides, he likes wearing S's clothes, likes how they smell of him. "Lead the way."

"Yeah, you have," S agrees, faintly amused. For a while, in the wake of J leaving, it hurt too much to and was impossible not to think of how things had been with him there. That became infinitely truer after J was dead. S never really tried to shut it out, and he couldn't have forgotten any of it if he tried, but still, there were memories and details he couldn't let himself spend too much time on for the sake of his own sanity. Now, though, it makes him smile again, remembering times J would wear his clothes and how nice it always was to see, enough to make him not mind so much if it was because J didn't have anything clean of his own to wear. Now it's a necessity — he wouldn't very well expect J to put back on his singed, soot-stained clothes right after bathing, and doubts they'll be salvageable anyway — but one that S likes the thought of even so, maybe because it's one more way of making this feel real. J in his apartment, using his bathtub, wearing clothes S acquired here, all those details help. They make it seem less like this is just a memory, a ghost.

"This way," he says, starting down the hall in the direction of the bathroom. It's a nice apartment, he thinks — nicer than the one he last lived in, nicer than he would have expected to just be given. Aside from the money that was waiting for him when he arrived, a similarly strange thing in itself, and that he's been told will continue to be provided every month, he isn't entirely sure how he'll keep paying for it yet, but he's had only a matter of days to try to find his footing, and there's so much else to try to make sense of. There was even before J's arrival upended everything; now, of course, that takes utter precedence. The rest can be worked around it.

Flipping on the light, he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, crouching by the tub so he can turn the water on and adjust its temperature. Even with as close as they are, as they've been, and as acquainted as he is, or at least once was, with J's body, there's still probably no way for this not to be a little awkward. He still can't entirely keep his attention off J, either, too aware of why this is the solution they've settled on for getting J clean but not wanting to watch him like a hawk, either. At least the few days he's had to start settling in mean that he has everything they should need here — shampoo and conditioner and soap, clean towels. It occurs to him, suddenly, to be glad that he got here first. He's better equipped to help J this way; had it been the other way around, he's not sure J would even have still been here by the time he arrived, a thought he can't let himself focus on now.

Again he feels a bit like a child, waiting for S to prepare a bath for him. Not that it bears any strong resemblance to his own childhood, but all the same, it makes him feel small. Once he's in, he's sure, he'll be more comfortable with the attention. Right now, though, all he can do is stand back a couple of steps and look around, taking in the space he's stepped into. It's clean, neat, unsurprisingly; it's also larger and in better shape than the one they used to have — modest yet, but it feels newer. Maybe it's because it is, because S hasn't been here very long. J has no way of knowing for sure. S might even have mentioned it, but it's been forgotten, if so, and time doesn't make any kind of sense now. It feels like it, though, less lived in than their lives once were. But then he must have been here for some time, to have an apartment already.

He could just ask. As it is, though, he's trying to cling to whatever little shred of normalcy and comfort he can find, and taking in whatever it is that's brought him back to life is a few steps beyond that.

Besides, he's having difficulty enough looking around a bathroom without catching sight of himself in the mirror for too long, because when he does, it's a terrible sight. And when he does, he can't help looking a little longer. The mirror is larger, better, than the tiny one in the cramped bathroom in the space he last inhabited, and the light is better, too, which is unfortunate. It just makes it easier to see himself: too slight, eyes too red, tear tracks apparent on his cheeks where crying has streaked through smudged soot, blood on the hands that clutch at his shirt. It's faint now, at least, the blood, but he still sees it. At least, however he's come to be here, it healed any burns he must have sustained after he lost consciousness, the way it did his arm.

His arm.

He glances down, breath catching, at where the scars are barely visible beyond the fabric of the shirt he holds.

If he went halfway out of his mind at the sight of S's scars, he doubts S will be particularly pleased to see these. Once he's in the water, there won't be any hiding it either.

"I should —" His voice shakes a little, uncertain. "My arm. It's healed, coming here healed it somehow, but —" He doesn't know how to put this. It's hard to find a tactful way to explain that he cut into his own arm like this. "I don't think you should see it."

Even before he turns towards J, even before J has finished speaking, S hears a waver in his voice that tells him something is wrong. It's not altogether surprising, really. They only just barely managed to claw their way back to a better mood, and it could never have been anything but a delicate, uncertain one. At least for right now, with everything still so fresh, there's no way for it to have lasted very long. Still, S frowns in concern, first glancing up, then pulling himself to his feet once he thinks the water has reached a comfortable temperature, warm enough to stay in for a while without being too hot. With the tub now behind him slowly filling with water, he can keep his attention on J for the time being. He'd meant to keep himself busy for a few moments, thinking that it might be too awkward for him to just be standing here while J undresses, but whatever has him sounding like that is more important now.

It's hard to know what to expect. S thinks he remembers J saying something about his arm before — that he'd been hurt but wasn't anymore — but he hadn't thought much of it at the time, just taken J at his word and carried on. Now it seems like it might be more serious than he originally thought. A burn from the fire, maybe, except that doesn't make much sense when the rest of J seems unharmed. The only other thing he can think is that J might have been hurting himself, an uneasy thought but not at all outside the realm of possibility.

Whatever it is, he can't make J show him, but just like the scars now buttoned under his own shirt again, it's probably inevitable that he'll see whatever is there sooner or later. It might as well be now. He might as well know instead of wonder, anyway, especially since he can't very well stay here with J while he bathes and not see his arm. After everything, S would so much rather know how bad things are than be blindsided by it later.

"I'd like to," he says, soft and careful, pointedly not trying to get a look at J's arm yet. "If you'll let me."

Even as J says that, tells S he shouldn't see it, he knows this is what will happen. It's the only thing that would come out of his mouth, though. He'd needed to say something, too unsettled to think clearly. This won't be good, he knows it won't be good, but there's no real way around it. Better now, he tries to tell himself. Better just to get it over with. It's not like he can avoid it for long, short of refusing to get in the bath after all. S wouldn't make him. He'd try to talk him into it, but he wouldn't make him.

But then there'd just be this hanging overhead.

He hadn't thought anyone would ever see. Like so much else, it made sense at the time, and it accomplished what it was meant to do, didn't it? Marked out the next movement, measured out his purpose, ended his life.

This won't be good.

He hesitates, trying to get his racing heart under control, but waiting only makes it worse. Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes a shaky breath. He could fight. He could push. S wouldn't push back probably, not now, not yet. But, God, he's tired and unsteady on his feet, and this isn't just going to go away.

With a sigh, he sets his shirt down on the counter, taking a careful step forward toward S. "You won't like it," he says quietly, bracing himself for what's to come as he holds out his arm.

He's expecting — well, nothing good. A burn after all, maybe, or some cuts. Even bracing himself for something bad, though, S doesn't think he'll be looking at a whole word carved on the inside of J's arm, healed, yes, but visible, deliberate. Immediately, he feels his stomach turn, his eyes grow hot, his mind drifting back to the conversation months ago — the first time they'd spoken in so long — when J called to ask him about that same word. He'd known so little, then. There wasn't even much to know yet, no one actually dead, the only crime committed an accident. It's stayed with him since then, the inadvertent part he played in all of it, what his words prompted J to do when, really, he'd just been taking the chance to try to recapture what they'd had before. The blame isn't his, he knows, when he couldn't have had any idea what he was doing, but still, it's a difficult thing to have contributed to.

So, then, is this. S isn't so self-absorbed as to think that it's actually his fault, but still, he's the one who told J about that particular note on Beethoven's Cavatina, who reminded him of it when he called to ask. It would have been awful anyway, the sight of it physically painful; that just makes it that little bit worse.

Maybe there's some sick sense to the fact that they're both indelibly marked now by everything that's happened, bearing the scars of it. There's no comfort in that thought, though. Not when it means J was in agony enough to cut this into his skin, not when he'll have to keep carrying this around with him now.

"What..." he says under his breath, having just sense enough not to add the rest. Asking J what did you do doesn't seem like something that would be remotely helpful right now. Still feeling queasy, his chest tight, he looks from J's arm back up to J again, just barely managing to keep tears from falling. Instead, although he already knows the answer, he asks in a weak voice, "You did this to yourself?"

Edited 2020-12-19 13:33 (UTC)

It hurts. The way his heart constricts at the sound of S's voice hurts, it hurts to breathe; he almost imagines his arm hurts, too, a pain so blindingly sharp it almost doesn't exist. It doesn't exist. Wounds like these should never have been able to heal. He wrote out his own death sentence, and corpses don't heal.

Which, he thinks distantly, is the problem with being alive. Healing is a painful process.

Nothing, though, is quite as painful as this. He forces himself to look up, to meet S's gaze, and it's terrible. It would have been better if he'd never known. They could have pretended it was the fire, the smoke, that killed him. Except that's not possible. He couldn't spend whatever life he has left hiding his arm at all times. Still, he feels sick with anxiety and shame. It hadn't mattered at the time, he wants to say, and he knows that won't help at all. But it hadn't. It was, like so much else, a means to an end. It's only this that leaves him feeling nauseatingly guilty, seeing how much it hurts S.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. It feels like a stupid thing to say when he's the one who's injured this time, but it's the first thing that comes out. He is sorry. It's not something S was supposed to see. There wasn't supposed to be a body to see. Self-conscious, he reaches across himself, cupping his scarred arm in his free hand. What he really wants is to reach out, to comfort and apologize, seeing the tears already forming in S's eyes. He can't, though, frozen and a little afraid he's already ruined everything all over again, afraid he doesn't have the right to offer support when he's the one who's dealt the blow. "I had to finish it."

As much as he doesn't want to look away from J, S shuts his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to try to keep breathing evenly, to get his emotions under control. It doesn't really work, especially with the explanation J gives. In a way, that makes sense, too — not really, but knowing about the others, the deaths who came before, and how they were marked, too, he can at least put those pieces together, track one bit of mad logic to another. Still it seems different here, perhaps because it's J, perhaps because he was still alive when he did it, intending not to be, perhaps because of what that goddamn sonata did to him. Trying to do something he loved should never have become so distorted, S thinks. Finishing a piece shouldn't have meant cutting its direction into himself, ending his life. As if one means of suicide wasn't enough, he had to use a second. Now it's there, his anguish cut into his skin, inescapable.

In spite of everything, S can't help but wish he'd been there, too. It's a stupid thought, really, when he was there, and he almost died for it, but if he'd been there sooner, or been there later, maybe it wouldn't have had to come to this. He knows he can't let himself go too far down that road, that there's nothing to be gained from entertaining those hypotheticals, but even so, he wishes that J hadn't been only either alone or in the company of someone who did nothing but use him and push him to killing.

"Please don't be sorry," he says all in a rush when he opens his eyes again, the words a heavy exhale. He isn't the one who's been injured here. All J did was show him what he would have seen eventually anyway, what he probably would have already seen if he hadn't been so distracted before. S feels a little guilty for that now, too, but saying so seems unlikely to help at all. "I —"

He reaches out like he wants to touch J's arm but stops short of it, unsure if it would be welcome or worse, his fingers flexing in the air. "I would have seen eventually anyway. I just hate that you felt like this." That's such a massive understatement. It breaks his heart all over again.

J clenches his jaw, closing his eyes tight, his nails digging faintly into his arm. It stings to hear, not least because it's incredibly difficult not for him to correct S. Not felt, not past tense. He may feel somewhat better now — considerably better, yes, okay — than he did when he marked himself, but it isn't as if all this has simply chased his problems away. The pain is still there, his heart still heavy, almost unbearably so.

Little lies have to be okay. Lies of omission. He has to bite some things back if he wants to stay afloat. In a sick way, that has to be a good thing, a flicker of self-preservation, he figures. If he's too honest, if he has to see S process that, he doesn't yet know if he'll survive. Can't say that he still feels the poison of that hurt in his chest, can't try to soften the blow in some way by pointing out it might be better to bleed to death, numbed by shock, than to burn alive, just barely manages not to say that at least the piece came out well. He's got enough sense to know that the things he thinks should be somewhat helpful aren't actually helpful, at least sometimes.

He doesn't know what to say now, standing awkwardly, gaze flickering down and up again. He can't bring himself to look away entirely and can't bring himself to keep looking. "After all I did," he says, low with guilt, more for how S feels now than for anything he's done, "what would I be if I hadn't felt like this?" Cautious, slow, he extends his scarred arm, still clutching it carefully, to lace his fingers between S's. If he doesn't touch him, he's scared one or both of them will just float away.

For a moment — just one, and gone as soon as it first starts — S wonders if maybe this is a bad idea after all. He would never just abandon J, not even now, maybe especially not now, but he can't see any way that he could ever even come close to being what J needs. Even before, he wasn't, and there wasn't a trail of bodies to contend with then, J's own included. J had low moods, sometimes frighteningly so, but he never did this. The instant the thought crosses his mind, though, he knows it's wrong, viciously dismisses it. He can't make J better, or offer any kind of absolution for the things he's done. He's utterly clueless as to how to provide the sort of support that a person who would hurt themselves like this could need. But he also knows there's nowhere else for him, that they would be far worse off apart than together. S is scared, yes — scared for J, scared of his own inadequacy to help him — but it's a fear worth taking on. At least he can be here, trying his best; he can love J in spite of all of the accompanying hardships. This wouldn't hurt so much if he didn't.

Feeling J's hand meet his seems like proof, in a way, that he's right, more relieving than that slight contact should be after the past while they've spent together. His fingers curl around J's in turn, squeezing gently, meant to be a reassurance for J but also serving as one for himself, too. In spite of all of his efforts to the contrary, at least J is here now. At least they're together, impossibly, more likely than not irrationally. He can't fix any of this, but he's always loved J in spite of that anyway. The issues facing them now are even bigger than before, but that much will still be true regardless.

"Still," he replies, his throat tight. He gets that much, and knows, too, that J's overwhelming remorse is part of what makes it easier for him to want to be with J even after the things he's done. That doesn't make it any less painful to think about J being so far gone that he would do something like this. He should never have had to wind up in that place anyway, driven to kill others until he felt he had to kill himself, too.

S exhales shakily, staying close. "Will —" His voice catches on the still-present threat of tears; he quietly clears his throat and tries again. "If it's this bad again," he says, the words slow and carefully measured, "will you tell me?"

It's a good question, one J doesn't have the answer for. He can say he will, but when it comes down to it, if he sinks so low there's no way back up, will he really? And he doesn't want to lie, not when S looks like this, and he doesn't want to tell the truth either.

"Maybe," he says at last. It's the most he can offer with any measure of certainty. "I don't know. I don't know how to say these things." Besides, if it's that bad, he's not sure he'll want to tell S at all. He won't want S trying to stop him when — if, he tells himself, if, if — he tries again. He frowns, lips pressing into a flat line, and steps closer, free hand moving to rest at S's hip. It's hard to see him like this, so heavy and sad. It's hardly the first time J has brought that pain into his countenance; he knows it won't be the last. He tries hard to think of that as meaning he has more reason to try, to avoid hurting him more. "How is anyone supposed to say that? What do I tell you? I'll try. I will."

In retrospect, he's not even sure how he did it. The agony of having nearly killed S, the horror of those he did kill, the crushing sense that all of it would have no meaning at all if he didn't finish the sonata, if he stayed alive — all of that, perhaps, pushed him even further into madness and desperation, and, at a certain point, the pain of the knife was less than that in his heart. Still, it occurs to him distantly, it's a pain they both know now, flesh carved by his hand. That only makes it worse in so many ways.

S feels at once conflicted, the answer not what he wants to hear but reassuring for seeming honest, all of him tense and yet comforted by J's hand against his hip. It's something, at least, and he would rather know where they stand, rather hear a maybe than an untrue yes meant only to placate him. J has already said he'll try, and that's more than S knows he could rightly ask of him. He'll just have to take this as it comes, be cautious and aware, and still that's better than being blindsided by things being worse than he could have known. So many times, he's replayed that one phone conversation in his head, trying to see if there were warning signs he missed, if anything should have given him an indication of how much J was already struggling. J wasn't right, he'd known that much, but S would never have guessed just how bad things were or how much worse they would get.

This time will be different, though. He'll be here, possibly able to help before things get to that point, making sure that, whatever J is facing, he won't be doing so alone. S can't guarantee now that that will make a difference — feels a little sick when he considers that fact, too, hopes desperately that it will — but being able to keep J here, alive, is worth any effort he can make.

"Anything," he says, a soft plea, his head bowing slightly. "Tell me anything. Whatever you can say, however you can say it. Just... so I know you're hurting."

He still feels shaken and sick with the sight of the scars on J's arm, but he swallows hard, breathing in deep, trying to focus instead on the closeness of J and the warmth of his hands. For now, he's here, and for now, they're alright, and isn't that already so much more than S ever thought he would get? Isn't that, at least, a good place to start?

He inhales again, willing himself to be steady and composed as he looks at J. "As long as you'll try."

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