[Eddie came to him, too. The irony, Jim thinks, is that he's never been good at providing comfort. He's a conditioned stiff upper lip; he's an awkward cough, a pat on the back. Without the claustrophobic expectations of Hawkins, he's (perhaps) become better at it, here. Allowed himself the time to think, to consider his actions, to allow other people the time to express themselves, to coax something warmer than a stilted acknowledgement out of him.
But he's still, he thinks, slightly frigid with his feelings. Stephen came to him despite this. Eddie came to him despite this. Despite his slow crawl to self-acceptance. Despite how, even now, Jim sometimes thinks he's become broken just because he finds comfort in other men, and how that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Makes him want to lock his doors, shut the curtains, make himself unavailable because he's too weak to resist when one of them comes calling.
He doesn't know what to do with all this affection. He doesn't know what to do with the compacted, roiling love he sometimes feels for Stephen, or Billy, or Javert, or Alicent, when it's all based on fiction. The very fact he can't shake it probably made him the perfect target; made him easy to manipulate. He wants to be angry. He wants to tap into some of the rage that Billy is capable of and feel it down to his bones. Two years ago, this would have been easy. Here, and now? He's tired. He's just really fucking sad.
His voice is thick, eyes damp, when he finally coughs and manages to get out: ] Why?
[And maybe he should be angry about asking this too. About the weak, miserable part of him that needs to know what on Earth Stephen Strange could possibly see in or need from him. He thinks: you're a grown fucking man, Jim, like this will make the feeling go away. ]
cw: internalised homophobia, by god he's on one this month
But he's still, he thinks, slightly frigid with his feelings. Stephen came to him despite this. Eddie came to him despite this. Despite his slow crawl to self-acceptance. Despite how, even now, Jim sometimes thinks he's become broken just because he finds comfort in other men, and how that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Makes him want to lock his doors, shut the curtains, make himself unavailable because he's too weak to resist when one of them comes calling.
He doesn't know what to do with all this affection. He doesn't know what to do with the compacted, roiling love he sometimes feels for Stephen, or Billy, or Javert, or Alicent, when it's all based on fiction. The very fact he can't shake it probably made him the perfect target; made him easy to manipulate. He wants to be angry. He wants to tap into some of the rage that Billy is capable of and feel it down to his bones. Two years ago, this would have been easy. Here, and now? He's tired. He's just really fucking sad.
His voice is thick, eyes damp, when he finally coughs and manages to get out: ] Why?
[And maybe he should be angry about asking this too. About the weak, miserable part of him that needs to know what on Earth Stephen Strange could possibly see in or need from him. He thinks: you're a grown fucking man, Jim, like this will make the feeling go away. ]