hismelody | I'm on waves, out being tossed

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I'm on waves, out being tossed

Eventually, the lack of sleep was always going to catch up to him. Through three sleepless nights, or at least mostly sleepless, S knew it, exhaustion increasing, though easy enough to push past with so much else to focus on. Still, it was only ever a temporary solution at best, nothing that could have lasted much longer than it did. With that being the case, it shouldn't be such a surprise when, after that third night, on their third full day together, he hits a wall, no longer able to keep his eyes open, drifting off while sitting on the couch. He isn't expecting it all the same, though even that, he barely registers, just as he's only half-aware of J ushering him back to bed, too tired to protest or to focus on why he should.

It's different when he wakes up. S grew accustomed a long time ago to sleeping and waking up alone, though it was one of the most difficult things about all that solitude, no longer having a warm body beside him at such times. He and J shared a bed for years, even before their relationship became more than platonic, cuddling together for warmth in the one bed in their small studio when the weather began to change. Of course, he felt it then, the beginning of something more, and it wasn't all that long after that they admitted their feelings for each other, but they spent ages like that. Even when they fought, even when J would barely speak to him, he still had the anchor of J's presence at his side, the distance sometimes easier to breach that way. It was comforting, always, but like so much else, he never thought he would lose it until he did.

He had months, though, after J left, after J died. At some point, following the former, it just became routine, as sad and empty as everything else about his life, J's absence as tangible as it ever was to be with him. It shouldn't, then, have taken only three nights to change that. They've hardly been apart in that time, though, save for brief moments of one going into another room for something or other. He's spent every night holding J as he slept, so overwhelmingly grateful to be able to do so, determined to do anything in his power to keep him safe.

So, when S wakes up distinctly alone, disoriented and unaware even of how long he's been asleep, the first thing he feels is cold, sheer terror.

For moments — sometimes hours, even — at a time, he's managed not to dwell on it. It's always been there, though, never too far from his thoughts, always ready to creep back in, the memory of how J sounded that first day on his couch, what S was so fucking scared he might do, J's promise not to stay, but to try. Even that was more than S could have asked for, and yet he knows it's not a guarantee, either. And while the past couple of days have been good more often than not, there's no telling what might happen with J alone, left to his own thoughts. Believing that a couple of decent days would be enough to override all that darkness would be entirely too naïve, even for S; it isn't as if he ever stood a chance against it before, and things are far worse now than they ever were then, even if, in some ways, they're better, too. He doesn't know how long it's been, he doesn't know what might have happened, and it's too much, his chest so tight that it feels like he can't breathe. Despite still being tired and out of sorts, it takes him only moments to pull himself out of bed, trying not to move quite as frantically as he feels but unable to take his time about it.

Not so very long ago at all, he woke up to find out, not very long after, that J was already gone. Now, as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, he silently prays to whatever deities might exist that he won't be too late again. He only just got J back. He isn't at all ready to lose him again.

He's dimly aware of a few things — muffled noise that he can't distinguish, the fact that the bathroom door is still open and the light off, which is something of a relief in its own right, though he doesn't really feel it until he rounds the corner and sees J sitting on the couch, watching TV. Overwhelmed and breathless, trembling with worry, he presses his free hand to his chest, the other resting against the wall for support he's surprised to realize how much he needs. "You're alright," he finally manages to say, though it's more to himself than anything else, his voice so small he's not even sure it will be fully audible over the sound of whatever J is watching. He doesn't care, just taking in the sight of him, mercifully alive and alright, relief mingling with the panic he can't yet shake off.

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Even if S mentioned being hungrier than he thought he'd be, J is careful not to put too much on his plate. When he's been through these moods himself, he's never sure if he's going to want to eat or not, not until he's in the process of actually eating. And, really, he could let S take care of it himself. He isn't trying to baby him, after all. It's just nice to do; it feels domestic, even if the food he's doling out was cooked in a restaurant. He puts a little of everything on both plates, smiling warmly as he does. It smells good. Maybe it won't be as impressive once he actually eats it, but he doubts that.

Maybe he just misses home. Not the actual place — he doesn't want to go back. Even if he could, he doubts he'd feel safe or comfortable in Seoul now. But he misses the point in their lives when that was home, when home was somewhere they shared, and food like this was easy to get or even something his mom made for them when they'd visit. Sometimes he'd go on his own to see her, but even then, she'd press leftovers on him to take home. Sometimes, though, he'd drag S along, especially for holidays. He's been trying not to think about it too much the last few days, because he might unravel again if he looks at it too closely, but still, this feels comfortably like home.

"You can kiss me again later," he promises, teasing, and nudges S's leg with his foot under the table. "But first, we eat." As tempting as the samgyetang is, he grabs his chopsticks first to dive into a helping of tteokbokki, the cheese dragging out from the tteok as he lifts it away from his plate, and he grins even before he takes a bite. That's always the best, when the cheese in the sauce is thick enough to stretch like that, and he's happy to find, as he bites into it, that the flavor lives up to that promise. "Ah, I haven't had good tteokbokki in a while."

S smiles, fond, at the way J starts fixing a plate of food for him before he can do so for himself, nudging him back under the table. He could just as easily have gotten his own food, but it's sweet, having J do it, and he's hardly about to object when they both get to eat either way. Besides, in a way, he just agreed to this. He's sure it isn't what J meant, but he did say that he would try to let J take care of him too, to work on allowing himself to be taken care of at all again, and there's no reason not to start with this, relatively insignificant though it might be. He did mean what he said, too, that it's hard to know where to start; of course, the same is true with a plate of food in front of him, but at least it's enough to keep him from thinking too much about how he'd like to kiss J again.

"I intend to," he says, as much teasing as not. Exhausted as he is, from the lack of sleep and the panic and the crying, he highly doubts he'll be up for doing anything more than that tonight, but there isn't a chance that he won't kiss his boyfriend again for a little while before he goes back to sleep. If anything, he suspects they might both need it after all that.

Right now, dinner takes precedence. While J starts on the tteokbokki, S turns his attention to the samgyetang, blowing gently on a spoonful before tasting it. "Oh, it's good," he says. "Still hot, but good." That's for the best, though, better than if their food arrived cold. Far from surprisingly, he thinks the restaurant must have been one nearby, the trip to deliver it short. It isn't as if it would have been any particular problem to reheat everything, but still, there's something comforting about living close to shops and restaurants that are reminiscent of home when so little here is. Well, so little outside of this apartment, anyway. The two of them could be anywhere, in any world, and he would feel just as much at home. "I'm glad you started talking about food."

He's not sure he would have wanted to eat otherwise, or that it would even have crossed his mind to do so. This, though, is definitely worth it.

J keeps darting glances at him, occasionally distracted by his food, sometimes distracted by S instead. He looks better now, J thinks — more color that isn't just from crying, calmer, genuinely pleased with the food. It is, really, more than J could have hoped for. If S isn't used to this kind of thing, it has to be even more jarring, but it's always disorienting for J, no matter how many times it's happened. To see him a bit more settled and eating is soothing for J, and it makes it easier for him to relax, too, and enjoy the food.

"I don't remember why I did," he says lightly, "but so am I. I wouldn't have wanted to cook anyway." He's not even sure he should try to cook by himself yet. He's fine when he's helping S, but the pressure of going it alone might make him more nervous, frustrating though that is, and he wouldn't have asked S to do it on a night like this. He follows S's lead, lifting a spoonful of soup and sipping carefully. It's a bit hotter than he's expecting somehow, but not too much so. More importantly, it's as good as it smells, bringing with it a sense of nostalgia. That's what he wanted, though, something familiar like home, something comforting for S.

"I like this," he adds after another moment and a mouthful of bulgogi and rice. "It's nice there's such a place close by."

For a moment, S almost agrees that he doesn't remember why J did, either. In all fairness, a lot has happened in a short time, and he swung from panic to tears without much of a break in between, and it's hard to keep track of everything that's been said when he still feels not quite wholly settled yet, his head a bit foggy. Before the words can leave his mouth, though, he realizes he does remember, his expression softening a little at the thought of it. In the moment, worked up and afraid as he'd been, even the most comforting parts of their conversation were bittersweet or heartbreaking. It's a little easier to think about now, a softer but similar feeling to the warmth he felt when J pulled him into a kiss in the kitchen a few moments ago.

"I remember," he says, smiling almost shyly across the table at J. "We were talking about... if we ever had a house. What we'd make in our kitchen." It feels like such a silly little dream. J has always been so ambitious, and S has long since felt that J doesn't understand his lack of it. There are things he wants to do, and he was eager to improve, when he was still playing and composing, but his real goals, the most significant ones, were smaller, more domestic. That's even truer now that he's gotten J back after so long. A quiet life with the man he loves is all he really needs to be happy.

"But I'm glad we didn't try to do that tonight," he agrees. "I wouldn't have wanted to cook, either."

J's expression softens in turn, all fondness, food forgotten for a moment. He'd feel silly for having forgotten that, but the last hour or two has been exhausting — more for S than for him, he assumes, but for himself too. Taking care of S involved a lot of changes in topic and a lot of more serious ones, too. This, though, is a particularly nice one, and now it comes back to him — a nice dream to have, he thinks. A better one than he used to have. He used to want acclaim, used to want to be a prolific composer of masterpieces, but he can't think about it for long. The piano frightens him too much, and he'd rather hardly anyone at all know who he is now.

Tonight, certainly, all that matters is that S knows him — better, in some ways, than J does. "Not tonight, no," he agrees warmly. "But one day. It would be nice, wouldn't it? Even if we don't get a house one day, a kitchen like this is good." Few people really had houses back home anyway, at least in the midst of Seoul. He never would have imagined it as a kid. Even now, he supposes, he has big dreams. "I've never tried to make samgyetang before."

He has vague memories of having helped his mother once or twice, but not very often and probably not very well. More likely it was busy work she gave him to make him happy and because she thought it was cute. More often, she made it herself — something warming in winter, especially if he had long hours of study after school, or something for if he was sick. It won't help him with making it as an adult, but they can figure it out. Besides, he remembers that wasn't even the dish that set him off looking for menus. "But tteokbokki shouldn't be too hard, right? We should try."

Even back in their little studio, S used to think about it sometimes. He was happy there, never bothered by how small the space was when it was theirs, but that didn't stop him from imagining that they might one day have a place all their own. Just a bigger apartment, one with actual rooms and thicker walls, would have been nice, but a little house somewhere would have been even better, the sort of thing he dreamed about without much of an expectation that they would ever get it. Now, it's hard not to start envisioning it again — a small home, just spacious enough for the two of them, a yard with a fence, maybe even room enough for them each to have a piano, certainly an actual kitchen. It's one thing he's quickly finding that he appreciates about this apartment, especially now that he has a reason to put more effort into cooking again.

"You mean a kitchen that actually is one?" he asks, teasing, though he can't really manage to look anything other than deeply fond. "We should. I'm sure we can manage." Tonight, even if they had the ingredients on hand, wouldn't have been the time to try it. Even something simple and familiar, he wouldn't have wanted to make; he would have managed if he had to, but even now that he feels far more settled, not nearly so panic-stricken, he's just out of sorts enough that it probably wouldn't have been the best idea, taking more focus than it normally would. Ordering out like this might not be an expense they can spare very often, but tonight, it's worth it, all the more so because J was right a moment ago. It's nice to know there's somewhere nearby with food like they could get at home. He would never have expected that to be so significant, but then, he could say the same about everything that's happened over the past week and change.

"We could try samgyetang sometime, too," he adds, pausing for another spoonful of the dish in question. "I remember helping to make it at home, I think. Years ago, of course, but still."

He probably has similar memories, J thinks, and then corrects himself. S probably has memories of actually helping, not just clumsily cutting up vegetables or stirring a pot that was just a little too high up for him. It was lucky for them both, J thinks, that S learned so much with his mother. J's own efforts are never quite as good as what S can make.

He glances up with a warm smile, finishing another bite of tteokbokki. They could even buy the pre-made tteok from the store and just make the sauce, then learn how to make the rice sticks later, take it a step at a time. "But still," he agrees, licking a bit of cheese from his lips, stifling a laugh at it. "Ah, I know I helped a few times, but... I don't think I was as useful."

Truthfully, he wishes he could have been more so. There are things he learned to make, especially on days when their roles were reversed, when J would get back from his studies before she came home from an especially long shift. It always felt important to do as much as he could, but given why that's so, he didn't have many chances to learn at his mother's side. At least now he can learn with S. It isn't quite the same thing, but it's good, too, in its own right, and something he can focus on instead of the pang of longing that comes with thinking of his mother. There are too many feelings to sort through there, and he can't let himself do so now.

"Hopefully you remember more than I do," he adds lightly. "And hopefully I'll be more useful for you, too. It would be nice to be able to make it, especially when the weather gets colder."

Although it's been years now, S still sometimes catches himself wishing he could ask his parents things. It would be so nice just to be able to call his mother and ask how she made samgyetang, or other dishes he hasn't had as much practice with. Of course, even if she were still alive, it wouldn't make a difference now when he would still be here, and it's hard sometimes to think about what he would say to his parents now if he could — how to explain everything that's happened — but it would still be better than the alternative. That isn't a line of thought he particularly wants to continue with now, though. Most of the time now, it's fine, a steady but dull background ache, something present but manageable. When he's been so frayed and emotional tonight already, though, and so afraid of losing J too, he really doesn't need to start thinking about how much he misses his parents.

"Don't worry, I'll find ways you can help," he promises, shooting J a small smile, reaching over for a moment to let his hand brush against J's wrist. That's the only downside, really, to having ordered all this food. It would be hard to eat soup still curled up at J's side as he would like to be, with only so much contact they can feasibly manage while eating. Still, this was definitely worth it, and worn out as he is, he thinks he might actually sleep tonight. Aside from briefly dozing off the other night, he can't remember the last time he actually fell asleep and woke up in J's arms, but it's just one more little detail that he missed.

"And it would be nice," he agrees. He doubts he needs to say that they can't splurge on takeout like this very often. Every once in a while, it'll be nice to treat themselves, but for something so familiar and comforting, it would be good to be able to make it here and not have to rely on ordering out.

It takes him a moment to realize why J's statement, simple as it is, makes him feel all warm inside, but then it hits him. The weather won't get colder for months. He wouldn't have specifically expected otherwise, but it feels really, really good to have J seem to be thinking that far ahead, to imagine them still being together then. He wants more than months, of course, but it's still more of a future than he had any reason to think they would get.

Little touches like that mean so much now. It feels so good just to be able to touch each other in small, absent ways. A little at a time, he's adjusting to the feeling that this can just be a normal part of his life again, and soon a lot of it will start to feel routine. His life, though, has been anything but routine for a long time. He doesn't intend to take it for granted that it might be soon. And now, at least, it's soothing, the little gestures, the soft smiles, the easy, idle chatter. He spent a long time in silence, desperately alone. This is better company by far.

"Good," he says, "I want to help. Really, so you can't just give me busy work, okay? I want to know how to do things right." It occurs to him that tonight's panic poses a problem for the exact reason J wants to learn. Better, he thinks, to approach that head on, instead of eating the chicken wing he just picked up. "Eventually," he adds, "you'll have to leave me here sometimes, you know. One of us has to be able to work. I hope I'll be able to again soon, but... we both know I can't yet. So you need to be able to do so, and know that I'll call you or send you a message if I need anything, and I want to be able to make dinner for you. So you have to show me for real."

He's not sure it's really the best time to bring it up, when S has been frightened even to sleep for long in case he does something, but it's not something that can be entirely ignored either. Since he's thinking about it, it feels important to talk about. Serious though he's turned, his expression softens a moment later, his smile small and a little shy. "If you're off taking care of us, I want to be able to do so, too."

These past few days, S has considered the same thing more than once, both that he'll have to find work before too long and that J probably won't be able to, at least not for a while. Thinking about it now, though, on the heels of all that panic and several nights running without sleep, is different. For a moment, instinctively, he feels his chest tighten just a little; this time, though, he tries to breathe through it, focusing on the familiar scent of the food in front of them and J's slight smile to keep from falling back into it. He can't do that now. If anything, he doesn't want to deter J from being able to say such things to him, trying instead to think about how much he appreciates that J has. In a way, it helps, too, to have J openly admit that he wouldn't be able to work yet. S suspected as much, but he wouldn't have wanted to be the one to point that out, even just to tell J not to worry about it, certain that it probably wouldn't go over very well. This is better, even if he does have to fight off a small surge of fear at the thought of J being alone all day most days.

"I know," he murmurs, an agreement meant for all of it, summoning up a almost mirroring smile of his own in the name of being reassuring. "I've been thinking about that. About looking for work soon." It isn't like he had any plan for how or when he would stop staying awake just to be there if J needed him, no particular sign that he was waiting for, no precise amount of time that would ease his concerns. He doesn't want to say that, though, and have to admit that he hasn't just not been sleeping much, but rather not sleeping at all. "And about... I'm still getting used to the money here. The figures don't entirely make sense to me yet. But I think, if I get a job, and with the money we'll both get every month and the two of us sharing a place, we should be alright without you having to work yet. I don't... want you to feel any pressure to. I promise, I don't mind being the only one of us working for now."

It should, he thinks, speak for itself, but it should also be said. Granted, S is pretty sure that he's dodging the actual subject at hand at least in part, but it isn't wholly deliberate; mostly, he's just been sidetracked. It just helps that it means he doesn't have to address the part where he'll be leaving J here alone just yet.

J thinks he can see it, the flicker of panic, and for a moment, he feels horrible for having said anything. S recovers, more or less, though, and J lets out a tiny, relieved sigh. It's bad timing, he tells himself again. Still, they need to talk about it eventually, and there's no point sitting on it. Besides, as S speaks, he finds himself reassured by it all, his expression softening into adoration.

"How did I find such a boyfriend?" he asks, fond, a little teasing. Even though he knew S would think as much, it helps to hear. Really, he's felt a little stupid about the fact of not working these last couple days. Even as he's told himself that he really just can't handle it yet, even as he's known it's too early to force himself to work after having died, it still makes him feel terribly small and foolish to think he won't be able to yet, and he's had to fight against that old fear of being simply someone for S to take care of. It isn't like that, he knows it isn't, that he's the one thinking these things and not S, but he needs reassurance all the same.

"I will again eventually," he says. "I want to. I always feel so off if I don't have something to do. But until then... well, I'll have a lot to do here, learning how to take care of the house and cook and cleaning up the mess I make of that." As long as he can do that and he can contribute what he gets every month from this strange city, he can handle letting S be the one to hold down a job for a while.

S doesn't realize until he finds himself relieved by J's response that he'd worried how he'd react. Even that, he considers, probably isn't altogether a bad thing. It means he's taking to heart, or at least trying to, everything J has said to him over the past couple of days — that he doesn't like needing help, which has been plainly apparent from the moment they met anyway, and that he doesn't want to be made to feel like he can't do things or for S to be more of a caretaker than a boyfriend. With this, though, to S, it's been all that makes sense. Given everything, it's hard to imagine J being ready to find a job yet, and now that they've decided to live together, there isn't really any need for him to. Money will likely be tight, but they're used to that, and if absolutely nothing else, the stipend they both get from the city, as strange as that is, should make sure that they can keep the rent paid and food in the kitchen. They've always gotten by before. They will again now, and S doesn't mind at all being their only other source of income for the time being.

"Ah, by getting picked on in the yard at school," he replies, gently teasing right back, "that's how. And standing up to those bullies." It was twofold, he thinks — how he wanted to protect J and was in awe of him at the same time. All these years later, both are still true. Even now, they're talking about a way for him to take care of J, one that S is just glad they aren't going to have to fight over, knowing how often J has balked at that and how much he likes to have something to do, to be useful.

With that in mind, his expression a little more serious, he nods, not wanting to seem like he's taking this too lightly, knowing, too, how much J has hated it when he's come across that way. "I'll help you learn how to cook some dishes," he adds. "And remember the settings for the washer and dryer, and that sort of thing." Those tasks mostly fell to him before, but he wasn't the only one of them working then. As much as he still doesn't mind taking care of any of it now, he knows better than to leave J without anything to take care of.

J snorts, rolling his eyes at that assessment, though it's entirely true. He's not sure how admirable it was of him to keep fighting back when he was outmatched, but he's never been much good at knowing his limits or when to back down. Then again, knowing that's what caught S's attention, he'd never want to change it. Time did enough to wear him down anyway, without his trying.

Even so, he feels more like himself lately, something he feels is due in no small part to S — to moments like this, where S encourages him. He's thankful for the warmth and the fondness, but thankful, too, for this, how seriously S has taken what he's said. He nods, emphatic, and smiles a little. "I'd like that," he says. "I'll write it all down if I have to. Call you in the middle of work to ask how I'm supposed to wash sheets again. And anyway, once I've gotten better at a few foods, I'll be better able to follow recipes, right?" He can get a cookbook from a library or something, if they have cookbooks here for the kinds of food he'd like to make. Granted, if he actually finds he's any good at it, surely he'll want to try new things eventually, but for now, he's trying not to dream beyond samgyetang, something that tastes like home.

"I'll feel a lot better like that," he adds. He'd want to do his best to help take care of their home anyway, but he often lets things slip his mind. Like this, he has all the more reason to remember and to work hard for it. "I'll be contributing too."

Instinctively, S wants to tell him that he would be contributing regardless. From his standpoint, it would be true, too. Just having him here makes all the difference in the world, makes this place a home rather than just somewhere he's living, and S knows he can only imagine how hard it must be to cope with everything J has on his shoulders now. Besides, he'll be contributing to their rent and bills, too. This isn't something he's going to fight J on, though. As much as he wouldn't mind doing the cooking and laundry and other assorted chores for them — anything, really, to have J here — he's hardly going to complain about having help with them, especially if it makes J feel better.

"I'm sure you'll be able to," he agrees, with as much faith in J as he's ever had. "Once you've gotten some more practice, we should try to find one somewhere." It would help him, too, really, to have a cookbook to reference for things he never picked up at home, since it isn't as if there's anyone he could call to ask for advice now. He learned a lot when he was young, committing things to memory when he helped in the kitchen, but it isn't as if he could have expected to lose his parents when he did. Having something to learn from or double check would at least give them some more options.

He still doesn't particularly want to dwell on his parents and the loss of them right now, though, and it's at least easy enough to keep his focus elsewhere, between the food and the subject at hand. This, too, he's considered on and off since he got here, really; even before J showed up, he knew he would have to find work before too long. It's just a bit more pressing now, even if it also makes him more inclined to give it a bit more time. "I don't even know what kind of job I'd be good for," he says, a small admission. He's worked odd jobs on and off since the two of them first got their own place, but he also has physical limitations now that he didn't then, and anyway, this wouldn't just be something part-time on weekends and between classes. School, he feels fairly sure, is out of the question for him. Though still technically on leave before he got here, S doesn't think he would have wound up going back, and not just because there's a very good chance he wouldn't have had a scholarship anymore. "But I'll make sure it's something where you can call me anytime. And if you ever... need me here, just say the word and I'll come up with a reason to call out or leave early."

J brightens at that, softens, too, pleased. S has always been so incredibly supportive — even, really, when J has made it difficult, almost impossible — so it's not like this is surprising. In light of all his own fears, though, it's still deeply reassuring. Whatever he ends up doing, whatever he's capable of, S will help let him do it as best he can.

"Tell them your girlfriend is very sick," he says dryly, then shakes his head. "Ah, you could do anything you like." S is clever like that. He could do anything he wished to, J is certain of it, and he's good at making people like him in a way J has never been able to manage. It's just a matter of figuring out what S would like to do. They've had an assortment of odd jobs between them — whatever, really, J could manage to get, he took, as long as it didn't cut into his schoolwork. He wasn't going to let anything jeopardize his chance at a scholarship, but beyond that, he had no ability to be picky about what he pursued. Not too many people were keen to hire someone like him. With the money from this city to help them, it seems like maybe they can afford to hold out for something S might actually enjoy, at least.

"What would you want to do?" he asks. They've talked about all kinds of things over the years, though J hasn't really wavered. It's always been music in some form or another, though there was a period where he hadn't yet written anything worth calling music and he'd thought he'd simply play. Now he has no idea what to do with himself. That's all he ever wanted, and now the future is a vast, blank sheet of paper. It's better, easier, to focus for now on what S would like. "If you didn't have to worry about the money." They always have had to, but at least it can help them pinpoint a direction.

S lets out a soft, startled laugh at J's suggestion for a excuse to leave. It's really not a terrible one, all things considered, but he thinks it might be too much of a lie to actually say. If nothing else, he wouldn't want anyone to start asking questions about some imaginary girlfriend, in case it became too apparent that no such person existed. He would have no pictures, any details would have to be made up; he couldn't just describe J and pretend he was talking about a girlfriend rather than his boyfriend, given how easily that truth could come out. When he needs to, though, he'll figure something out. It shouldn't be too hard to come up with an excuse to get away.

"If I didn't have to worry about the money, I would stay here with you," he points out without any hesitation, fond and teasing, his nose scrunching a little as he smiles playfully over at J. It's only a moment, though, before his expression softens again, accompanied by a helpless shrug, casual but still clearly uncertain. "I don't know." He used to. For a long time, he was absolutely sure that he knew. Once it occurred to him to pursue music, it was like pieces falling into place; he always loved it, but studying it, setting that as a goal, just felt right, much like being with J did.

Now, though, it's different, the past year and especially the last few months taking a toll. He should just say it, probably, that he doesn't write anymore, that he barely plays. While he can't predict how J would respond, though, he can guess that it wouldn't be particularly good, and he doesn't think he could bear to face that. Just getting into that subject at all seems like a potential minefield, and they've cried so much already tonight. He doesn't want to make them fall apart again now, when they've finally gone back to feeling somewhat good.

Besides, even if all of that weren't so, he's still not sure he would want it anymore. With as jealous as J was of him for so long, he should have given it up sooner, probably. It wasn't worth the damage it did, and it wouldn't be now, either.

"Nothing with heavy lifting," he adds, voice light, though he means it. "I doubt they'd keep me a week."

J reaches across the table to lay his hand atop S's, just for a few moments. "That's true," he says wryly. "You were already almost as weak as me." And now, he knows, S must be equally as out of shape as him, maybe more so, for having been so gravely injured. It's not something he wants to dwell on, and it isn't something they've been much able to talk about, but he knows it's probable, at least. Besides, though there's no reason to be ashamed of manual labor, there's also no reason someone with S's brilliance should have to do it if he doesn't want to. There are plenty of jobs he's better suited for, though most of them are probably incredibly dull.

"But aside from staying with me," he continues. He takes a moment to eat a bit more, thinking it over. There are things he knows S used to want, but he has no idea what that looks like now. Besides, even if they had a piano, even if J could bring himself to stay away from one, composing and playing won't bring in the money they need yet. Dreams are necessary, but so is a measure of practicality. "Mm, you could give lessons?"

He's not sure, suddenly, that he's being at all helpful. "Sorry," he adds. "You've had a stressful night and I'm talking about work. We don't need to figure it out yet." As if to prove his point, he shoves a big piece (maybe a couple pieces) of tteokbokki into his mouth, letting his cheeks go comically round as a distraction, eyes widening to match.

There's something oddly almost comforting about the way J phrases that, how he says already as if implying that that might have changed since they were together. It has, of course, but S wouldn't have wanted to say so. As little as he's talked about the months since J died and his grief, oblique as they've kept any references to what J did to him, he's said even less about the physical effects of it — nothing at all, really, aside from trying to tell J that he was fine when J first reacted to the scars on his chest. And he meant it, too. He is fine now, as recovered as he can be, from a physical standpoint; he can lift things again, and spend more than a few minutes at a time on his feet, clearly. It was a long, slow, painful process, though, and some of the effects of it linger, while others still are permanent. He's thinner now than he used to be, and weaker, too; he was never athletic, but he has even less stamina now than before. His heart will never be quite the same, in the most literal sense. Those aren't things that J needs to hear outright, though, so it helps to have that truth implicitly acknowledged without a conversation about it.

Far less comforting is J's suggestion. It isn't a bad idea, actually, or it wouldn't be if it didn't cut too close to other subjects that S is deliberately trying to avoid, if it didn't make him so uneasy just to think about telling J that he doesn't really play much anymore. He hasn't intended to stop entirely, but it's mostly for J's sake — for his memory — that he meant to get back to it, continuing because he was the only one of them who could, because J would never get to. Now, it's different. That was such a source of friction for them before, to say the absolute fucking least, and it wouldn't be worth the damage it would do. Teaching, at least, might not be as bad as composing, or even as playing somewhere, but it still might be too much. The idea of rededicating himself to piano in any way is strangely unsettling, not at all right in the way it used to be. Maybe it's only because they haven't really talked about that either, but when there's every chance that doing so would only make it worse, he doesn't particularly want to change that.

"I don't know," he says, shrugging again, uncertain, though he relaxes a bit, smiling at the way J's cheeks puff out, a moment later. "Ah, you're cute. Don't be sorry, it's alright. I'm glad you brought it up. It's been on my mind, too."

J brightens, relieved it worked. He's usually the one trying to make things more serious — often more so than they need to be — but there's no reason they need to dwell on this now. Besides, S doesn't look entirely comfortable with the subject. It's a lot to think about now, and it hasn't been very long since he was shaking with panic and tears, and it's J's turn to take care of him, not to make it worse.

"I know," he says, because of course it has been. They've spent too long having to fend for themselves not to think about these things. As emotional as the last few days have been, they've talked a lot about what it means to make this their home and to have a life together, and there's no way to discuss that and not think about the money they'll need just to stay afloat. Having the cash they were given when they arrived helps a lot, but they still have to plan ahead. He remembers, before he continues, that he should chew and swallow, if only to avoid choking.

"But I didn't have to bring it up now," he says. "If you wanna talk about it, that's fine, but we can figure it out later. This food is too good to waste talking about jobs. Better to focus on how cute I am." He can barely say it, almost laughing as he does. He really isn't, but if he can make S laugh, that's good enough for him.

Even before J got here, it was something that S had on his mind, nothing especially pressing yet, but present all the same. With the money that was waiting for him when he arrived, something for which he's grateful, despite not understanding it, he could give himself a little time to get settled, then to figure out what to do and look for work, without winding up in particularly dire straits, but it's not like he intended or wanted to stay unemployed for very long. Not having anything to do wasn't doing him any favors. Now, with J here, he's both in less of a hurry, wanting a little more time to spend together and to make sure that J is as steady as he can be, and aware that his finding a job will be more crucial, since he's the only one of them who'll be working, at least for the time being. He really doesn't mind that, either. It's something he would have been doing anyway, and he wouldn't want to pressure J to take on more than he could handle yet. With the two of them splitting expenses, and him bringing home paychecks, they should, he thinks, be alright — certainly more so than they would have been if J had moved into that other apartment across the city, leaving them with twice as much to pay in bills.

All of that is easier to consider than the simple question of what work he can do. They probably should talk about it, if not tonight, then sooner rather than later, but he's been aimless for a long time now, and that, too, is hard to own up to. He had only one thing driving him the past few months, and it isn't as if that would do him any good now. Neither would going back to anything involving piano if it would only make J resentful of him again.

He smiles instead, swallowing a bite of food before he says, "The cutest." As far as he's concerned, it's absolutely true. J is especially cute like this, in good spirits and teasing, making it easy to do the same in turn. "Aren't you supposed to be the one telling me to be more serious?" Nudging J's foot with his own under the table, he wrinkles his nose again, not wanting J to take his comment the wrong way. "We can talk about it now or later. It's fine."

J laughs. Rather than nudging S back, he slides his foot along S's, brushing his ankle, playful but still flirty. He's not looking to start anything, but sometimes it's fun to let go and not be the serious one for a minute. "If you want to," he says. "I don't mind." He doesn't want to add to S's stress either way. "Just because we need to take it seriously doesn't mean we have to do so at dinner."

Or, for that matter, just on the heels of a panic attack for S and a big emotional whatever it was that J went through just there himself. He's not exactly at his best either — even for the limited value of whatever his best has been the last couple years — but he's learned to function in that state to some extent, and he's still doing better than he often has for a while now. He's more concerned about S.

"I think you could do anything anyway," he says. "Aside from lifting heavy objects. Or professional sports."

Letting out a laugh of his own, just a soft exhale, really, S shakes his head, expression deeply fond. He's as sure that that isn't true as he is that J believes it, which is both sweet and a little sad. They've both, he thinks, always believed in each other more than themselves, even if he's never had the same level of insecurity that J has. Where he only ever felt awe, though, he knows that for J, it turned to resentment, just one of many, many things that drove them apart. In this context, it's nice to hear, really, nice for someone to have that kind of faith in him when he hasn't had anyone in his life for so long; he just has to drown out that little flicker of worry that it won't turn in the other direction again.

"Ah, well, there go my dreams of a career in baseball," he deadpans as he reaches over for a chicken wing. He would never have considered either of those, of course, and he's sure that J knows it. However much they've both changed, some things very much have not. His foot curling alongside J's in turn, he adds, "I don't know, I'll have to keep thinking about it, I guess. Or maybe just look and see what places might be hiring."

The idea of S voluntarily playing any kind of sport, never mind professionally, is enough to make J laugh again, even though he was the one to start the joke. It's not like S is wholly incompetent at these things — J's reasonably certain he'd do alright if he had to, in a casual setting — but he's also never been interested in that, unless he took up some surprising new hobbies in J's absence.

"I guess that would be the rational thing to do," he says, nodding. It's the technique he's always fallen back on, after all. Finding a job has, thus far, never been about what he wanted to do. It's only ever been a matter of finding somewhere that was hiring, that would allow him to work around his studies during the school year, and that would actually take him on. There were places where they really didn't care about J's background, and that was always a relief, but there were plenty enough, too, where he'd find they didn't want someone like him around. Coming across a place that had all three was hard enough without his being choosy about the kind of work it would entail. All that mattered was that it paid.

But they had bills to pay and no reliable income back then, aside from what S got towards the rent, and so that was how it had to be. They have a little more room to pick and choose here. "But if you think of something you want to do," he says, "you could at least start looking in that direction."

He knows what S used to want to do. He ought to just mention it outright, but he is, he knows, a bit of a coward. Besides, with the state they've both been in tonight, he really doesn't feel like it's smart for him to bring up music right now. "As long as it doesn't involve objects flying at your face, I'll support it."

S smiles a little wider, quietly pleased, at the laugh J lets out. He's always loved making J laugh, and that feels especially true now — when for so long, he tried and failed to do just that, when everything was so heavy just a little while ago. Part of him still wonders if he should just say it, tell J that he doesn't even know if he would want to look for anything involving music or not, admit that he hasn't written at all in months. It isn't as if he can keep it a secret forever, the subject bound to come up eventually. For that matter, it isn't really as if it's a secret at all. It is, instead, just a simple fact of his life now. Mostly, though, he sees the way J looks now, hears the lightness in his voice, and he can't bring himself to change that, not now. He doesn't see any way for that conversation to go particularly well, if only for the subjects it comes too close to skirting the edge of. This doesn't seem like the time. Besides, it isn't as if there are many high-paying jobs for pianists anyway. If he's going to find work to support the two of them, it should be something where he'll actually make enough money to be able to do so.

"Nothing flying at my face, got it," he says instead, warm and still amused as he watches J. "I don't think it should be too hard to find a job fitting that description." He can't imagine himself considering anything otherwise, when all joking aside, he really never has been remotely athletic, and he can't think of many other jobs that would come with that risk. Surely, if absolutely nothing else, there must be some stores hiring or something. Considering that, he has a little flicker of worry that most of them won't want to take a chance on someone whose first language isn't English, but he's done well enough since he got here, apparently having retained more from his high school classes than he would have expected.

Just as J did a moment ago, S reaches over to rest his hand against J's arm for a moment, expression softening the slightest bit. "I'll figure something out," he promises, as close as he thinks he should get to acknowledging how distant he's become from music. "And we'll be okay until I do."

J smiles, soft and content, turning his arm under S's touch so he can touch S's arm, too. There's no real concern or stress in S's voice, no worry that J is worried, just quiet reassurance, and it feels nice. Though it's been a stressful evening, he feels at ease now. He nods his agreement. "We have enough to get by for now," he says. He hasn't taken a close look at their finances, but he knows that what he got when he arrived was surprisingly substantial, and that S got the same. Between the two of them, that should keep them fed and housed for the coming month, anyway, as long as they don't order out like this again — or, anyway, not very often. That gives them a while to figured out their next step, so there's no need to add to S's stress tonight.

"And I know you will," he says. "I'll help however I can, but... you've got this, I know." S is tough and determined, every bit as stubborn as J is. When he's ready to look, J has faith he'll figure it out. "Until then..." He shrugs, smiling. "It's nice to have you all to myself." They spent so long apart. It's good to have this time just to enjoy each other's company again. They need it, he thinks. There's a lot to talk about, a lot to determine and discuss, a lot of lost time to make up for. If they can have a couple weeks or even more where they simply get to be together, then he's going to make the most of it.

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