hismelody | where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown

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where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown

For years now, Christmas has felt like a time that's theirs. S had plenty of Christmases before the first one they spent in that tiny, cramped studio, but that was the one that changed everything, the two of them confessing their feelings just two short weeks before, the holiday spent still in the beautiful haze of that. It wasn't all good, of course. His first Christmas without his parents was always going to be a difficult one; he still finds that the holiday season makes him a bit wistful, a bit melancholy. It turned a time he was dreading, though — the worst time in his life, or what seemed like it then — into the happiest, too, and that's not something he could ever lose sight of.

Last year, it made him miserable. On his own, reminded of J at every turn, left to stare at the piano where they shared their first kiss (and many, many more after), Christmas became a dismal time, all the happiness and cheer only emphasizing his own lack of it. For the first time, he was alone, and it was awful. That in itself would make this year significant even if it weren't for everything else that happened in between. Their first Christmas back together is a big deal. But it's also J's first Christmas alive again, and that makes it even more of one. So does knowing how unhappy J must have been last year, too. S can't make up for that, and he certainly can't change it, but he can try to make this Christmas as good as possible, to give them some new, better memories to hold onto.

Of course, he would want to anyway. They were good at that, he thinks, in those first years together, making Christmas special even when they had next to nothing. It's not presents that make Christmas, not by a long shot, but being somewhat better off this year, he wants to make the most of that, too. That's just easier said than done when J's birthday and their anniversary come in such quick succession leading up to Christmas, and even more so given some of the ways things have changed. Although J has now played the piano again, music or anything pertaining to it still doesn't seem like the best gift, and it isn't as if they have a piano here anyway.

He's excited and nervous about what he's settled on instead, but mostly, he's just excited to be together for Christmas again, now in their less cramped apartment, him still without his parents and J now without his mother but the two of them here to see each other through it. Maybe it's because that's what's been predominantly on his mind that S is, when he wakes up, incredibly aware of the fact that he's in bed alone. He doesn't panic the way he might have months ago, but it's still unusual. Typically, J is beside him, curled warm and close. Slightly disappointing as it might be, though, S knows he has to be close, and in fact can just about make out distant noise from across the apartment. Still a little groggy from sleep, he pulls himself out of bed, and first takes advantage of the opportunity to get J's gifts out from where he stashed them so he can bring them out to the tree, wandering into the kitchen a moment later, a sleepy little smile on his face.

"You're up early," he says, coming up behind J and wrapping his arms around his waist as he presses a kiss to his shoulder. "What are you up to?"

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J's so engrossed in his efforts that he nearly misses the sound of S approaching. There's a faint telltale creak from a floorboard near the hallway, though, that alerts him just enough to hear footsteps before S is behind him, enveloping him in a hug that has J closing his eyes and leaning back immediately. "Making —" His eyes open again, and he turns his head to look back at S, pouting a little. "Making a present for you," he says. "Ah, I almost had it out before you woke up."

He can't be very annoyed, though, with his poor timing when S is here holding onto him. Instead, J twists around to face him, hands coming to rest on S's arms as he leans in for a soft kiss. "Good morning," he says. He's not really one to get up early much of the time, unless he's having particular trouble sleeping. That happens now and then, true, but today it's excitement that woke him when the sun was barely up. He's been planning for a while now — since his birthday, really — to try baking something for S, and Christmas seemed like the perfect opportunity to do so. When S gave him that cookbook and J saw the cookie recipes in it, it sparked an idea that he's sure is brilliant. If, at least, it works out. Admittedly, he knows, he probably should have tried baking them at least once before this, and ordinarily he would have practiced and practiced anything he wanted to give as a gift, but it would be really hard to get rid of the evidence both of the mess and the outcome before S got home from work, and he's loathe to waste food for any reason. He's just had to hope for the best — not his strongest suit, admittedly.

It has to be enough, though, because this Christmas, like their anniversary just a short while ago, is perhaps the most important since they started dating. He wants to get it right, to give S something special that he'll remember. Cookies are just part of it, but he considers them a pretty important part. "They'll be done in..." He glances over S's shoulder at the timer. "A minute and a half."

When J pouts, S can't do anything but smile a little wider, the expression far more endearing than it has any right to be. The kiss that soon follows helps with that, too, his arms still looped gently around J's waist. For a moment — no, always, but notably right now — that matters far more than anything else. It's Christmas, and they're here, and they're together. There's always something stunning about the quiet simplicity of moments like this anyway, and that's even truer now with the occasion at hand. Really, this is all he could ever want or need. Caught up in how good that feels, S just looks at him, indescribably fond, gaze soft. He's thought many times that J is particularly adorable when he's recently woken up. This time, it can't be that recent if he has something about to come out of the oven, but he's still rumpled and sweet in a way that S knows no one else gets to see, which makes him cherish it even more.

"A minute and a half before I have to move, then," he replies, punctuating the words with another brief kiss. "Merry Christmas. Ah, you're sweet." He knew that J would wind up doing something, despite his saying that he didn't need much, but he wasn't expecting something homemade, something baked. That he's pretty sure the cookbook he can see on the counter is the one he got for J's birthday makes it all the more touching, in a way, a sign that he really did get something right with that. Maybe he will have done so with J's presents today, too. Likewise, he knows that J wouldn't make a big deal of it if he had little in the way of gifts, because that's been the case before and it's never posed a problem. S just likes doing as much as is reasonable anyway, likes finding things that will make J happy, that he can use.

Not wanting to be in the way, but not wanting to pull away before he has to either, he lets out a tiny, content sigh. "Is there coffee yet?" he asks. "Or should I put some on?"

The way S looks at him, J could just about melt away. It's bliss, having a moment like this, standing in their home, in their kitchen, in the arms of the man he loves, being looked at like that, and it's a moment he gets to have fairly regularly. He's so fucking lucky it's breathtaking. By all rights they should never have made it to this moment and yet it's exactly as it should be.

He lifts his hands to S's face, pulling him back for another soft kiss. "Merry Christmas," he murmurs. He's not the sweet one here, S is, a soft drowsiness clinging to him, wrapped around all the fondness in his gaze. If he hadn't set a timer — and he nearly didn't, nearly just followed the clock on the microwave — he might miss the right time to take the cookies out, because it's very difficult to look away from S when he's like this. And today, today is so special he can hardly wrap his mind around it. They're here. They're still here. S could give him nothing but that gaze and he'd be happy.

"There's coffee," he adds after a moment, smiling, pleased with himself. "I thought you'd want it with your present." It's not, of course, the only present. He's already set the others, haphazardly wrapped, under their ridiculous little tree. It's just the only one that's fresh-baked and edible. He lets out a laugh, a touch nervous, but excited, too. "I hope it comes out okay."

S isn't sure, really, why he finds this quite as touching as he does. They've had plenty of mornings like this, after all, both before this place and since they got here; it's hardly new. For that matter, whether big or small, their Christmases have always involved trying to do what they can for each other. Given the circumstances, maybe he would have found anything J did today particularly meaningful, but something about this — J waking up early to cook something for him, the sound of that laugh — makes him feel surprisingly emotional, a pleasant ache in his heart. Just having J back in his life at all was, months ago, more than he could possibly have hoped for. Being back together, having come so far this year, not being alone anymore, knowing how loved he must be — it's perfect, what would be too good to be true if he weren't living it.

"I'm sure it will," he replies, as confident in J as he's ever been. J's gotten a lot better in the kitchen these last few months, and frankly, even if whatever he's making doesn't turn out well, S doesn't think he'll care. It's sweet enough that J is doing this anyway. "I had no idea you were planning on making anything."

That is, he's sure, the idea, just as he's tried to avoid giving J any indication of what he's bought. A few times, he was tempted to ask him about it, just to gauge his interest, but when it came down to it, he couldn't bring himself to give it away. He'll just have to hope for the best.

"Then I succeeded," J teases, pleased with himself already. "Presents are supposed to be surprises." For that matter, he hasn't even told S what he's made. Given that he's never made it before, he's not entirely convinced it'll come out as well as he likes or even that the smell emanating from the oven is how it should smell — appealing, but not particularly sweet. Of course, he didn't want to go overboard with the sugar, since most desserts aren't meant to be very sweet and S doesn't have quite as much of a sweet tooth as he does, so that's probably why, but he's still nervous.

The timer is ticking away. He leans close for another quick kiss before drawing away, stepping over to turn the timer off before it can make any sound. He has no interest in listening to that. "Alright, here we go," he says, shooing S out of his way as he reaches for the oven mitts. He's come a long way since the early days here, he thinks, distantly proud of how much he can do now without being afraid of the stove. Opening the oven, he wrinkles up his nose at the wave of heat that comes out, then reaches in to pull the pan out and set it on top of the stove. The cake sheet looks right, a mochi cake in a lovely brown with hints of red from the dark red bean in the filling, walnuts and chestnuts crushed and drizzled on top. If nothing else, he's pleased with how pretty it is. "Ah, it looks good though? I have to slice it and let it cool first."

S steps aside when ushered to do so, taking in the scene with an inordinate degree of fondness. With this, too, he can't help but think that something so simple shouldn't be so moving, but it's the simplicity of it — the normalcy, though it wouldn't have been normal for them until the last few months — that he's so struck by. It really does look good, too, admittedly more so than he expected, though in retrospect, it doesn't surprise him at all that J would put so much work into the appearance of it. Aesthetics have always seemed important to him. For his own part, S isn't quite so concerned with them, but even so, he has to admit that there's something nice about knowing this is meant to be a gift for him and having it come out of the oven looking like that.

"It looks very good," he replies with a nod, stepping back over to J once the oven is closed again and the pan set down, slipping an arm around his waist. "Really, thank you. I don't think I've ever gotten anything baked as a present before." He turns his head to press a quick kiss to J's cheek. "I'll get some of that coffee while it cools. Should we open things after, do you think?"

They'll probably have a little window of time now while they wait, but he doesn't know how long that will be, and it's hard not to hope that J will want to try out his gifts once he's opened them. Nervous as he might be, he can wait a few minutes longer to find out J's reaction.

J turns to kiss S's cheek in turn, leaning against him for a moment. "No, no," he says quickly, "I think we'd better open the presents while it cools so we don't cave and eat it too soon." If it tastes half as good as it looks, he'll be relieved. At least he got the presentation right. Considering that it was a gift, he wanted to make sure of that, and it seems to have gone over well as far as that's concerned. Still, if they wait around for it to cool before they open gifts, he'll just get nervous about how it tastes. The distraction of exchanging other presents will help with that.

Giving S a squeeze around the waist, he steps away, casting a smile over his shoulder. "Pour me a cup too?" He has to cut this cake if he wants it to cool well and quickly.

With the red bean and mochi, it'll be a bit too dense for a butter knife, which is what he defaults to whenever possible, but he's at least had enough practice this year to be a bit more at ease with a regular knife. It took time, but it was a necessary effort. Some things he deals with by avoiding them, but some things are too much a part of ordinary life and he's had to figure out other ways of coping. Given that he's doing a lot of the cooking these days, using knives and the stove was high on the list of priorities. Still, he's careful as he lifts a knife out of the drawer, grabbing a potholder with his other hand so he can hold the pan in place as he cuts the cake into squares.

Glancing over at J as he pours coffee for both of them, S wonders if it's stupid to think that he's proud of his boyfriend. In so many ways, though, J really has come so far in the months he's spent here. He barely cooked at all before, and now he really seems to have taken to it. S can't imagine him doing something like this back when they were in Seoul, the fact of which makes him all the more appreciative now. It's more than that, though, too. J could barely use the stove after he first arrived, and he didn't use knives for a while at all, and with good reason. Now, though, he seems collected as he cuts the cake that he baked, and the whole picture makes S feel even warmer than the lingering heat in the kitchen does.

"Presents first it is," he agrees, stirring sugar into both coffee cups. "Ah, I'm excited for you to open yours anyway." He's nervous, really, which makes him a little impatient, though he wouldn't want to say so. The main gift he got feels like going out on a limb, not as safe a bet as other things he's bought J in the past. Sheet music and manuscript paper and records were always a given. This is something new, and he can only hope that he's made a good decision with it.

With both coffees ready, he picks them up and turns around. "I'll bring these out to the other room," he says, resisting the temptation to step close and kiss J's cheek only because he's holding two hot drinks and J is holding a knife, the situation making a potential mishap far too likely, which is the last thing they'd need on Christmas. "I still can't believe you baked for me. Thank you, really."

"I'm eating your present, too," J points out, but he can't help smiling, deeply pleased. It's so clear that S is happy. Even without having tasted it, he's happy, and that's really the best J could have hoped for. He'd like to believe it tastes as good as it looks, but he's still nervous. If nothing else, though, the gesture has gone over well. And he feels good about it, too, having gone through all the steps. There's something really soothing about cooking in general, but baking was a new step for him and he already wants to give it another try later. It's satisfying to follow the steps and produce something useful to them both, something that, hopefully, not only serves a necessary purpose but also brings a little happiness to their day, something that could be a comfort after work for S. "So it's not completely selfless."

Once he's got the cake sliced about as neatly as he can manage, he takes the knife over to the sink, considers a moment, and then makes himself wait and wash it. He could just leave it and go join S right away, but the last thing he wants is to be in such a rush one of them gets injured later because he forgot it was in here. Setting it aside to dry, he dries his hands, too, then heads out to the living room, lighting up a bit. S is so cute, still a little rumpled, and it's so nice to have a tree. It's a luxury J's rarely been able to justify, but it makes the place feel so cozy. Heading over to S, he reaches for him, fingers curling in his shirt as he leans in for a kiss. "Mm, a little coffee, then presents."

With the coffee cups set down on the table by the couch, S smiles as J heads back out of the kitchen, utterly affectionate. Maybe it's because the last vestiges of sleep are still clinging to him, giving everything a slightly hazy, dreamlike quality, or maybe it's because last year was so miserable, but whatever the reason, it's hard not to be struck by how perfect this feels, everything as it ought to be and then some. He's so fucking lucky. Just having J here, alive, wanting to be with him, would have been more than enough for him. Everything else — the size of their apartment now, the fact that he was able to afford some nice presents for J, the lights on the tree they picked out and decorated, J baking for him — is just a much appreciated bonus.

Even as he reaches for J in turn, hands gently resting by his waist, he tries to commit this feeling to memory, the warmth and the contentment of it. None of it is anything new, really, aside from the baking. They've had a good few months — rocky at times, certainly emotional, but still so wonderful. All the same, there's something particularly magical about a Christmas like this, a little like the first one they spent as a couple, except that much better for all they've been through and where they've wound up.

"Sounds perfect," he says, smiling against J's mouth as he steals another kiss. "And you're welcome to eat some of my present. None of your presents are edible."

J makes a playfully petulant sound, easing over toward the tree and drawing S with him. "And here I thought you'd lavish me with expensive candies," he says wryly. He doesn't really need anything like that. He has, he's realized over the last few days, no real idea what S will have bought for him, and it's at once incredibly strange and exciting. It helps, he's decided, that he's played the piano again, if only a very little. He still isn't entirely sure of what his future holds or who he is if he isn't a musician — or, now, if he's really stopped after all — and it's bizarre to imagine who else he might be, all the doors open to him that he hasn't dreamed up yet. The few gifts he received when he was younger were precious and valuable to him, but rarely a surprise, and now he has no idea at all.

After another brief kiss, he draws S down onto the couch with him so he can lean forward and grab his coffee. "Ah, I should have had some of this sooner," he muses after a sip. "Feels nice." He cups the mug close in his hands to warm them. It's warmer in the kitchen right now than it is in the living room — not by an awful lot, since the kitchen isn't entirely closed off, so there's still a lot of airflow, but enough that he can feel the difference now.

"If I knew you wanted expensive candies, I would have," S says with a shrug, teasingly serious. It's not such a bad idea, really, when he knows how much J likes sweets and that pricier candy isn't something they would be likely to splurge on ordinarily, but for Christmas, he wanted to choose gifts that would be more personal, more lasting. J baking for him is, he thinks, different; it's something homemade, done especially for him, even if also for the two of them to share, and deeply touching as a result. Picking out store-bought candy for J, regardless of the price, wouldn't have felt half as significant. Besides, he hasn't often been able to do much for J for Christmas. This year, having a little more money seemed like something to make the most of.

Settling close beside J on the couch, he smiles, leaning into him just a little. "Next year," he decides, and even still being less than serious, it's nice to say that and know that they might actually get there, that they might have the life together he used to imagine, if different now in some ways. "For now, hopefully you won't be too disappointed with what I got you instead."

Despite the lilt in his voice, he means this more than any of the rest of it. He has no idea what J will actually think of his gifts, can only hope they go over as he intended. As far as he's concerned, though, everything is already perfect. Having his boyfriend safe and warm beside him is the best gift of all.

J huffs out a soft laugh, glancing up over his mug, clutched as it is in his curled hands, hardly wandering far from his mouth. It feels so nice and warm, it smells good, and he probably should have had some earlier, but once he starts a thing, he has a hard time stopping until it's done. This is better, though, sitting with S to enjoy it together. "I won't be," he says. He can't think of much at all S could possibly get that would disappoint him. There must be things, he's sure, but nothing comes to mind. Perhaps it helps that he has no real expectations this time. Or maybe it's just the thrill of having another Christmas together at all, the excitement of next year. Making it to this Christmas wasn't a guarantee. Those early weeks, no matter how badly he wanted to stay at S's side, he also couldn't have made any more certain promises. He needed time and help to steady himself to a degree that made it possible for him to keep figuring out the way forward. And he knows, given how suddenly his moods have shifted in the past, that it's entirely possible that things take a terrible turn in the future and it gets harder again to hold on. More than simply knows it — there are days he catches himself unable to help thinking about it, terrified by the possibility even when it hasn't begun to become real. But right now, right in this moment, with S leaning into him, here on their couch in their home, the smell of something fresh-baked in the air and presents under the tree, seeing another Christmas after this one feels less like a hope and more like something he can expect.

That in itself would be more than enough. There's just no gentle way, on Christmas morning, to point out that it's enough that S gave him his grasp on life back. His grasp on sanity, too, quite probably, tenuous though it still sometimes is. He doesn't want to make S have to think about that anymore than is already likely, not this morning.

"You know me," he says instead, simple, shrugging his other shoulder, the one S isn't leaning against. "Whatever you picked out will be right. Ah, hopefully you won't be disappointed in what I got you. The cake's the only edible part."

S smiles, gentle, as he shakes his head, taking a small sip from his own cup. He couldn't possibly be disappointed. There could be nothing but store-bought socks under the tree for him and still he would be happy just to be spending Christmas at J's side, neither of them alone anymore. J having baked for him is already more than he would have expected. J just being with him is a hell of a lot more than he had last year, a Christmas that he did nothing to mark as such, save for leaving another carefully vague message on J's answering machine, the holiday spent missing years past and people no longer with him in one way or another. Just what he has so far, a quiet morning curled up together, is infinitely preferable.

Besides, J knows him as well as anyone could. It hardly seems likely that anything he picked out could be disappointing in the slightest. Of course, by the same logic, the gifts he bought for J should be good ones, too, nothing worth worrying about now, but he knows he's taken a chance of sorts here. He just hopes it pays off — that it might be more than a nice present to open, but something good for J, too, the way that practicing in the kitchen has been. He knows that J won't always be happy, even if he doesn't understand his moods all of the time; he knows, too, that there's a particular void he can never fill, though at least J has recently taken a step in that direction himself. Still, offering something new can't hurt, as long as he's actually chosen well here. And he better have, really, given that most of the gifts he has are pieces of the same thing.

"I won't be," he promises, content and confident in that. "I already have you here. Everything else is extra." With a quiet little laugh, he scrunches his nose, taking another sip of coffee. "And the cake is one more edible thing than I was expecting."

Though it's exactly the kind of thing he expects S to say and how he feels in turn, it still feels good to hear, a gentle warmth curling in J's chest at the words, a soft smile following. They've never really been able to give each other much anyway, as far as physical things go. This is very probably their biggest Christmas in that sense. None of it is nearly as important as this, and J just barely restrains the urge to climb into S's lap and kiss him, if only because he doesn't want both of them covered in hot coffee.

"I knew you'd be surprised," he says instead, soft and pleased with himself. If it tastes even okay, he thinks it'll be a success. He's hardly the greatest cook in the world, but he's improved substantially here, he's sure of that. Shifting his coffee to just one hand, he reaches out with the other, resting it atop S's leg. "Hopefully they're nice extras, and if not, oh, well." It's not quite that simple, of course, given J's rather intense perfectionist streak, but he's also had to temper that part of himself when it comes to anything that involves spending money, and that's been true all his life. He's not always good at it, not above the occasional terrible impulse buy, but gift-giving is, at least, one area where he's a tiny bit better at simply hoping he's achieved good enough.

He glances over at their tree again. "I already feel spoiled," he says, somehow both wry and entirely in earnest.

Smiling at the tender press of J's hand to his leg, S simply breathes in deep for a moment, taking in everything — the lights on the tree, the mingled scents of pine needles and coffee in the air, the soft look on his boyfriend's face. Between the fact that he hasn't been awake for very long and the quiet peace of a morning like this, everything feels just a little bit hazy and dreamlike, a little bit surreal, at once both comfortably steady and unspeakably delicate. It makes him gentle when he leans in, not for a kiss but to nose against J's neck for a moment, too much affection in him to be suppressed. There's no need to bother at a time like this anyway. This is all theirs. Already he has everything he needs — far more than he could have expected — with J beside him.

"So do I," he agrees, pressing a kiss to J's shoulder as he eases back. It's perfect, really, as much so as any of the Christmases he might have imagined when he was young, before he knew what life would have in store for him. He doesn't need presents for that to be the case. He has no doubt, though, that they will be nice extras, if only because it's J who picked them out.

Curious as he is, though, he's far more eager to do the giving than the receiving. "Do you want to open something?" he asks. "You made me the cake, so I think you should go first."

J sips his coffee, already having it in mind to set it down after this, though his intent was to get a kiss, not a present. There's no reason, though, that he can't have both. "You haven't even had any yet," he says, grinning, as he leans away to put his cup down. Sitting back up, he leans toward S, lifting his hand to cup S's cheek, drawing him gently closer for a kiss. It's not a no, of course. He just doesn't think S walking in on the last couple minutes of preparation counts the same as opening a present. Though, admittedly, J didn't have a wrapping plan for the cake anyway.

He lingers, the kiss slow and sweet, thumb sweeping over S's cheekbone. When he's done, he barely moves at all, eyes shut, just breathing in the moment. "Okay," he murmurs, then smiles, wrinkling up his nose. "I love you." They've said good morning and merry Christmas, but that needs to be said, too. It almost seems greedy to get gifts on top of being able to hold S and to kiss him, but he knows how much S likes when J likes his gifts. He knows, too, the barely suppressed excitement and nerves that were in S's initial question. There's no point in making him wait longer.

With another quick kiss, he draws back. "Come on, under the tree then. Where should I start? I can't pick."

Strange as it may seem, S isn't really all that concerned about how the cake might taste. J, he suspects, will be expecting perfection despite having never made something like this before, but for his part, in this instance, it really is the thought that counts. For J to go out of his way to make him something — getting up so early, trying something new, planning this in secret — means as much to him as any of the wrapped gifts under the tree if not more. For a moment, it makes him wish he had something more personal to give, too, but he's hopeful that what he got will be well-received. If not, there are receipts kept and returns that can be made, but he would rather it not come to that. It's Christmas. Presents may not ever have made much difference to the two of them, but he still doesn't want J to be disappointed.

"I love you," he replies, just as soft, lingering a moment before he pulls himself off the couch and moves over to the tree. It's a good thing, he thinks, that he remembers which present is which; it wouldn't be much of a surprise if J opened film or a camera bag without yet having a camera to use with it. It's a good thing, too, that J hasn't just grabbed one of them himself. If necessary, it probably wouldn't have been too difficult to cut him off and suggest which one to open instead, but still, it's simpler this way. Looking over the wrapped packages for a moment, he picks up the one containing a camera and holds it out to J, pleased and a little shy. "This one first. Merry Christmas."

As J moves closer, sitting beside S and the tree, he can't quite take his eyes off S. He's so soft at a time like this, recently awoken, quietly eager to give J his present, and J really can't get enough. It's exciting for it to be Christmas morning with presents under a tree, when there have been plenty of years a tree was a luxury too many and presents were small and few. Mostly, though, without having opened a thing, he's utterly content.

He would pick up something for S to open, too, but he sees the way S looks now, the shyness folded in with the excitement; S wants to see, so there's no point passing him something yet. "Ah, what is this?" he murmurs, pleased in turn, as he looks at the wrapped gift — a box of some kind. He only glances at it for a moment before he starts to tear the paper away. The size and shape of it aren't likely to tell him anything, after all, especially when he really doesn't know what to expect this year.

If he'd tried to make a guess, though, he wouldn't have thought of this, his eyes going wide as he peels the paper off to reveal the box itself. He would almost think it was a joke, his real present tucked inside this camera box, but he doesn't know where S would have gotten even the box. These things are expensive, or they were back before Darrow and this time. It hadn't even occurred to him to wonder if they're more affordable now. And this one, even before he opens the box, is obviously much nicer than anything he could have gotten in his own time even if he'd had the money, technology they didn't yet have. Carefully prying open the box, he blinks in wonder as he reaches in, the styrofoam squeaking and making him huff out a laugh as he slides it free. "A camera? Ah, really? Omo. I've never used one like this."

He's not even sure how, but there's a surprisingly thick instruction booklet that comes halfway out with the rest of the contents as J starts to peel away the plastic the camera's wrapped in. He's only ever used disposable cameras and his phone. As much as he's found he likes taking pictures now that he has an inexpensive way to do so, he's never thought about trying a real camera, but it's somehow both solid and delicate in his hands and he finds himself excited to try. "Sihyun-ah, this is... ah, isn't this too much? It's so nice."

S watches as J unwraps the present, trying to keep his expression as even as he can, neither too nervous nor too hopeful, though a little of both inevitably creep through anyway. The last thing he wants is for J to feel obligated to like his gifts. Granted, that's never been any kind of a problem before, not least because they've never been able to afford much for each other, but even so, there shouldn't be any pressure in this sort of thing. If J doesn't like it, S will be a little disappointed that he didn't choose well after all, sure, but there's no reason it should have to be an issue or put too much of a damper on their Christmas. He'll just take J out later to pick out something for himself.

His attempts at rationalization and reassurance for himself are cut off by J sliding the styrofoam out of the box and taking the plastic wrapping off the camera, startling a quiet laugh out of S in turn. There definitely won't be any returning it now, which has to be a promising sign, though there's still a nervous flutter in his chest as he shakes his head. He wants to say that of course it isn't too much, that nothing ever could be, but that's too romantic even for him. He wishes it were true, and it certainly would be in theory, but they've both had to live with the practicality of having very little money to live on for too long for it to be all that believable. Financially speaking, plenty of things would be too much. They're better off here than they were, though, and of course he's wanted to take advantage of that, within reason. To give J a nice Christmas, it's worth it.

"Do you like it?" he asks, and now that hopefulness takes hold, too much to be suppressed. "I know it's different, but I wanted... I know how much you like taking pictures with your phone, and I thought it might be good to get... something creative, but new." He doesn't want to say anything more about that now, not today, but there's no bad history here, no baggage attached. J is more of an artist than anyone else he's ever known, but even now that he's played the piano a little again, S couldn't have gone that familiar route in buying a gift. This just made sense, with the added bonus of being something surprising. At least, if absolutely nothing else, it seems like a safe bet that he managed that part. "Most of the others go with it. But if you don't like it, we can get you something else."

Creative, but new. J hadn't thought of it like that, not even with all the photos he's been taking on his phone. At first, it was only ever S he photographed, and then the city around him when he managed to go out by himself, wanting to show S what he saw and, to some extent, to reassure S throughout the day that he was alright. He's become fond of it, a way to capture little details of a life it shouldn't be possible for him to have — snacks at cafés that are too pretty to go undocumented, Franz on the couch when J curls up to watch TV while S works, the sunset over the beach, selfies to show S he's fine or to tease him when he's not home to touch, stray cats on the side of the road, the silhouette of leaves against a high sun. There's a pleasure in it, finding just the right angle to show off how pretty something can be or to add drama or highlight some little glimpse of the world that struck him as noteworthy. And yet, though one of the things he loves about music is its ability to make the everyday transcend into art, though he's recognized the photography of others as a creative endeavor, he's never considered that what he's been doing is finding a way to be creative even now, his soul longing for an outlet, reaching out for whatever he could do that would let him express some tiny part of how he feels when he feels so much. He's been happier here without the pressure to excel, but even so, there are times it feels like he's become mute, some essential part of his voice lost. He doesn't know how to go on or who to be when he isn't making something, saying something.

The camera is lovely, more than J could ever have imagined owning before this place, even if he'd thought of himself as someone who could take photos that would make owning it worthwhile. The cost isn't such an impediment here, doesn't put so much pressure on any given shot. But more than that, much more, is what S says. He saw what J needed even when J didn't know how to say it for himself. Of course he did. Though he's felt more seen, more understood, here with S than he perhaps ever has, this is almost overwhelming. Before he can stop himself, he's tearing up a little, shaking his head quickly. "No, I love it," he says. He doesn't want to cry, doesn't want S to think he's upset when he's really just profoundly touched. S recognized something he didn't see for himself. He so often does. Maybe that's why it hurt so terribly before, when everything was falling apart for the first time. He kept S from seeing, and it hurt not to have that understanding from the one person who's always understood — sometimes, as now, even better than he understands himself.

His eyes glassy, he blinks quickly, pouting as he looks to S. "Ah, really!" He hates being such a crybaby. He can't help it, though. When his emotions seem to think his only options are to shut down or show everything, he can't keep himself from wearing every little thing on his face right now. Sniffling, he sets the camera in his lap, rubbing at his cheek with the heel of his hand, trying to school himself into a less emotional state, or at least one where he can talk properly and not pout so much. He doesn't want to let himself start crying in earnest or he'll get far too maudlin. Today is too important, too special, for him to get bogged down in the past or in the way it aches to realize how much more he needed something like this than he let himself really feel before now. "Thank you. Really. It's perfect."

At first, watching J's reaction, S can't help the way his stomach twists with concern, with guilt. He prepared himself for the possibility that J wouldn't like his gift; he didn't for a second imagine that J might wind up on the verge of tears over it. His own eyes go wide, mouth curving into a slight frown, even as J says he loves it. Maybe his choice of gift was even more of an error in judgment than he anticipated. Maybe he just misspoke now, cutting too close even in his caution to subjects far too unpleasant for Christmas morning. It wouldn't be the first time, after all, that he upset J when trying to do or say something nice. Really, it shouldn't even matter all that much, just a slight hiccup like so many others they've had, but it's their first Christmas back together, and he didn't want to fuck it up, hates the idea of getting something so wrong on Christmas, his mind already racing, trying to think of ways he might be able to put this right.

What J says next helps a little, easing some of the tension in his chest, but he still can't be certain yet. "Really?" he echoes, hopeful and worried in equal measure, looking at J carefully as if he might somehow be able to discern the reason for his reaction. He seems like he means it, and in all fairness, he thinks they know each other well enough to have a good sense of when the other is telling the truth, but he still wants to be sure. On one hand, it's just a gift, but on the other, it feels far too important just to let it go, and not because of the money he spent on the camera and the other related gifts. "You're sure?"

Impulsively, he leans forward, one hand braced against the floor so he can close the distance between them and kiss J's other cheek. Worried as he might be, he still thinks J is sweetly adorable like this, with his little pout and apparent frustration with his emotional state. Alongside the rest of it — the reason for the rest of it — is deep fondness, one that has him both endeared by the way J looks right now and wanting to give J as good a Christmas as he possibly can, preferably one without any actual crying.

J sniffs, shifting closer the moment S gets nearer, ducking his head to hide his face against S's shoulder. He doesn't want to be emotional about this, not in this way. He doesn't want S to have to worry, not now, not on a day that's so special, so important, when he knows he must cause S enough worry on an ordinary day. He doesn't want, either, for S to think he got this wrong. It must have felt like taking such a chance, picking out something for him that he's never pursued in any seriousness. And that's the thing, really, that it doesn't have to be serious. He can do it differently, maybe even get better at it, but it's not a career, a calling. It's something he can just do, a way to give himself more of a voice without anyone assessing the final outcome, and that — that's as much of a gift as the camera itself. It's hard to put that into words without saying too much, but he also wants S to know just how right he got it.

"I'm sure," he whispers. He reaches out, camera perched in his lap as he wraps his arms around S's waist, lifting his head, pressing a kiss to S's cheek in turn. "I just... when you said that... I didn't — I didn't know how much I wanted that. Creative, but new. It just..." He swallows hard, taking a shaky breath. "It hit hard. But it's good, it really is." Times like this are a vital reminder, too, of how thoroughly his mind lies to him, something he can point to in the future when certainty wavers. How could he doubt this man knows him better than anyone ever has? How could he ever have doubted that?

Leaning in, he kisses S on the lips, soft and sweet. "I didn't know I wanted this, but I love it, darling." He huffs out a soft laugh, wrinkling up his nose before he blinks away at lingering tears in his eyes. "I hope you're prepared to be my model. More than you already are." He'll never get sick of that, capturing S from every angle, in every mood, whether in still image or song.

S didn't know either, really. Even with his own rationale, thinking that it would be good for J to have something artistic, something creative to do, a hobby to help fill some of the time he spends alone, it never occurred to him that it might be so meaningful. Mostly, he just thought it seemed like something J would find fun. As much as he didn't intend to make J so emotional now, though, there's some comfort in that response. At least it seems like a good sort of emotional, tears over something he got more right than he anticipated, not more of a misstep than he prepared himself for the possibility of.

When J shifts closer, S wraps his arms around him in turn, careful not to dislodge the camera but wanting him near all the same. J is so sweet like this that it renders him irresistible — even more than usual — and anyway, it's Christmas morning and they're back together, exactly as they should be. As so many things have these last few months, it reminds him a little of the first year they were a couple, the holiday tempered by his grief for his parents, made slightly bittersweet, but euphoric, too, for being all of two weeks into a new relationship. They've had the better part of a year back together now, but there are still so many firsts, especially around this time. Their first anniversary back together, their first Christmas back together, these things are especially significant, ones he wants to do as much for as he can. He went all out with the camera and accessories for it with that in mind, but even so, he didn't see this coming at all.

"It might drive me crazy within a week, but I'll live," he says, gently teasing, stealing another soft kiss before he continues. "Ah, I'm so glad you like it." That's an understatement, really, but he thinks it shows, his relief and quiet pride at having done well here. "Not to give away too many of your presents, but a lot of them are things to go with it." He said that before, he thinks, but now that he's sure of how J feels about it, it makes more sense to give some details. "The one thing I didn't do — I was thinking we could turn that one closet into a darkroom for you? But then the woman at the store said they sell portable ones, too, like a little tent you can set up, so I thought I'd wait and let you figure out how you want to do that."

It feels absurd to be so emotional over a single present, but J can't help it. In a strange way, it makes him feel more hopeful about music, too. One thing he worries about in between the very few chances he's had to play since he first tried is how important each time feels. Even if it's not as heavy a thing as it was before, there's still such weight to it, as if the ability to play or not play and the impact that has on him still has the power to define him. Maybe having something like this he can do, something that's new and different but still creative, will help take a bit of the pressure off that.

And even if it doesn't, it'll be fun to figure out how this works and to annoy S with it. He's put so much thought into it, though, getting the different pieces, thinking ahead to developing the film, and J wishes he knew how to set it up right now, so he could capture S in this moment. He nods, smile bright, if a little shy. "Okay," he says. "I... ah, I guess I'll get to know this friend a bit and then figure out which would be better. This really is so nice. I..."

He doesn't want to bring the mood down, talking about things that are more difficult. He's been working, though, on this, pushing himself this year to be open, transparent in a way he wasn't for years, and which he can only manage with S anyway. Besides, it's not like it's bad contextually or even surprising. It's just a more serious subject. "It's hard sometimes," he says, gaze slightly lowered. "It has been since before here. I didn't know how to make things anymore." He didn't know, for that matter, how to let things matter a little bit less, tripping over himself because everything felt so fucking important all the time. But with the pictures he's been taking, it's different. He takes them because small moments feel important, too, and little meaningless things still have beauty. And also because he likes being able to hold onto instants with S that would have faded in memory otherwise. "I... I missed... that part of me." He doesn't really know who he is without it. He hadn't for a long, long time, well before they broke up. But maybe it's still there in the way he stops to get the angle right before he takes a picture of someone's bike against a brightly colored wall just because it's pretty. "This seems like a nice way to... see it again."

He shakes his head, making himself lift his gaze again so he can see S. "I love you."

It's not as if S didn't know that already. He saw how frustrated J was in the months before he moved out; he read about how bad it was after, when he was so desperate for any kind of inspiration that he took the most horrific route possible to find it. Still, hearing him say it outright is touching, bittersweet, in context like this. S had no idea it would mean this much. He vaguely thought that having an outlet of that sort, in the absence of a piano, might be good for J, but he didn't go nearly that far with it, the pieces there but not quite put together. Now, though a part of him still feels guilty for having made their Christmas morning so emotional right off the bat, it feels good, too, comforting to have taken a chance and had it go this well. Had J not looked like he was on the verge of tears a moment ago, it would be tempting to say that he told him so — that he knows him, that he always did, well enough to have figured this out without even consciously making total sense of it. The moment isn't right for that sort of teasing, though, too gentle for that, too tender.

Instead, he lets go of J only to rest both hands at his jaw instead, holding his gaze for a moment and then drawing him into another kiss. "I love you so much," he murmurs. "I know it's been hard. And I know you missed it." That much, at least, he did have in mind. He's never once equated J's worth with his ability to play or write music, but even from his perspective, it's been strange, going so long without J playing at all, the fact that he's done so little of it now. Maybe it's a hypocritical thought when he barely plays, too — or maybe he's just ignoring what he's lost in that regard — but he still thought it would be nice for J to have something else creative to do. "I hope this... helps with that, a little. And I hope you have fun with it."

Although he has the sense not to say so, he wonders if it might be that much better under the circumstances for it to be something relatively new. J is bound to be a perfectionist about it anyway, but there won't be old standards of his own to try to live up to like there were with the piano after a while. For that matter, it isn't something he'll be doing, either; it can be all J's.

Smiling slightly, he exhales a laugh. "Even if I complain about it the whole time, I'll let you take as many pictures of me as you want."

J leans into S's hold when he draws back to speak, his fingers curling in S's shirt as his cheek tilts into S's palm. In a strange way, he thinks, even if he ends up being terrible at taking pictures or even if it doesn't help that much after all, this in itself is a gift, just being seen. He doesn't talk all that much about what he's still lacking — his own faults, sometimes, yes, but rarely the things he wants or misses. It's hard to voice them, knowing how upset he'll make himself, knowing that sometimes the only way to keep going through it is to refuse to look at what he's trying to ignore, always aware of it on the periphery, trying not to look back. Even if he knows S knows these things anyway, there's something comforting in hearing S say it back to him.

He looks fondly at S at the last, turning his head to kiss S's palm. "You won't be able to stop me," he counters warmly. Any kind of art he makes, he thinks, will always have S at its center, even if it's just a pleasant hobby. If he has something to express, S is a part of that. If he creates something new, something to convey a hope or desire, there's no future he can imagine or plan he would make without S in it. He tried to fight that for too long. Now all he wants is to let it enfold him. Inspiration is hard enough to come by without fighting off the best source of it he knows. S helps him feel steady and safe and happy where he is, but he helps J see possibility too.

"Ah, now all of your gifts will be anticlimactic," he says with a hushed laugh. "I don't think I got anything that special or interesting. Other than the cake." He's not too worried. They have years of giving each other the best they could manage, and that not being very much. It's never been less special to him for the fact that they had little money to spend and little time to create.

Huffing out a soft laugh of his own, S shakes his head, leaning in to kiss J's forehead this time. It's true enough that he wouldn't have started with this if he'd had any idea of how it would be received, but that's not at all for his own sake. He's never needed presents to be happy on Christmas, always just grateful for whatever made J think of him. Though money is less of a concern here than it was for them back in Seoul, that might be even truer now than it used to be. He was alone last Christmas, after all; there were no presents at all, nothing to set the day apart from any other. Not wanting to bring the mood down too much, he has the good sense not to mention that, but just being with J makes today special. He thought he would never have this again. It's enough, more than, to be here together, sitting by the tree, holding each other — a perfect Christmas, really, as far as he's concerned, even more so for having done better than he hoped in picking out J's gift.

"They won't be," he says, so incredibly fond. "They're from you, and it's Christmas, and we're together. It'll be wonderful." He can already practically hear J teasing him for being such a romantic, but he can't help it. It's better than the alternative of making a big deal of gifts not being significant enough, anyway, the very idea of which is difficult for him to fathom. Hands lowering again, he taps J on the tip of his nose before drawing them back, though he doesn't otherwise move from his spot on the floor close by J. "Besides, I don't think it's fair to say other than the cake. I still can't believe you did that."

In a strange way, though it isn't as if he thought otherwise before now, it makes him feel like they'll be okay. He remembers with painful clarity how fraught J's first days here were, how there was no guarantee that this would last. There still isn't, really, but it seems infinitely more likely now, and that's a gift in itself.

J's ready to tease S, too touched by what he says just to let it go or to acknowledge head-on how nice a thought it is when he's already so moved. He wrinkles up his nose after S touches it, though, and then S keeps talking, and J has to duck his head again, almost shy. "Ah, I know," he says, tone teasing anyway. "I never get up so early." It's true, and he'll probably end up napping later whether he means to or not, but it was worth it to see how pleased S is with the gesture.

He wanted that. It's hard here to know what exactly to get for S. It was, he supposes, the same problem that S must have had with him, finding something that wasn't sheet music but was still personal. He's always tried to give gifts that strike a balance, too, between being useful and being special, though he's never had the money to be as extravagant as his heart desires. At least baking is something where S knows he put in a real effort to do something special. Still, he hopes that the other things he got will be good anyway.

Admittedly, he did still end up buying sheet music. He's a touch nervous about that one. But S has been so patient and encouraging with him, letting him decide if and when and to what degree he wants to play again. It's a slow and uncertain process, one he's trying to approach thoughtfully, but it's impossible for him to miss, as he does so, that S isn't playing. He must sometimes at work, J is sure of that. And it probably won't ever be the way it was, the two of them playing as they once did, but they can still have music. If nothing else, Schubert's waltzes hold a special place in J's heart, and finding the sheet music for the one he played that day at Kagura felt right. It could ruin the mood, he thinks, if he got this wrong, but that's all the more reason for him to do this now, reaching for the thin box before he can think better of it. "You should open something too, you know."

Although S likes presents as much as the next person, he's been far more focused on the giving of them than the receiving this year. In a way, having gotten J something that's turned out to be so meaningful is like a gift in itself, the most he hoped for and better still. They've never been able to get each other much, anyway. Even while assuring J that he won't be disappointed with any of his gifts, he hasn't been thinking that much about them. J holding the wrapped box out is, amusingly enough, a reminder that he has presents to open now, prompting a small, pleased smile from him as he reaches out in turn to take it. Now that his attention has been turned in that direction, it's impossible not to be curious, a little eager, having no idea what J might have gotten him.

"Ah, what is it?" he asks, though the question is clearly rhetorical. The package is small and thin and light, and he gives it a little shake — quiet, too — before carefully beginning to peel the tape away from the paper, one more or less smooth sheet falling away, leaving him with just the box to take the lid off.

He expected clothes, a shirt or maybe a vest or some other sort of accessory, which in retrospect is silly when they've always had different taste in fashion, enough that they wouldn't normally pick things out for each other. Really, he would have been less surprised by anything other than what he sees, crisp new sheet music staring up at him, making his breath catch and his heart lodge in his throat. They don't even have a piano, part of him wants to protest. He doesn't even play anymore, not really, only a very little at work, something he's largely avoided talking about but that he thinks he's made clear even so.

The words don't come out. "You got me music?" he asks instead, realizing only when he hears the waver in his voice that his eyes have gotten hot, his turn, apparently, to be brought to the verge of tears by a Christmas present. He can't help it. J resented him and his playing so much for so long, or at least it came to feel that way. The last Christmas they spent together, they were already falling apart, cracks in their relationship lengthening, deepening. It's hard to imagine J doing anything back then to encourage him to play; it's hard now to read this in any other way, harder still to know what to do with that. While he would never say so outright, he can at least admit to himself that he gave it up mostly for J's sake. Not entirely, because he already wasn't playing much so it didn't feel like that much of a loss, but before this place, he expected that he would get back to it eventually, if only to carry on for the both of them when one of them couldn't anymore. Here, it's just seemed better, smarter, to let it be J's, to leave space for that even when J wasn't playing at all, not to risk doing anything that would stoke that jealous fire again.

Now, instead, there's this, the piece one he recognizes as the one J played when they took that first day trip to Kagura, and even if he doesn't know what to do with it, he does know that it means more than he could say. It makes him sad, in a way, a reminder of what he lost, but it makes him far more grateful. "Thank you," he whispers, looking up from the cover page, where his fingers delicately trace the title, to J. "I love it. I do."

Even if he never uses it, even if he never touches a piano again, just the meaning behind it is enough of a gift in itself. He doesn't know how to say that, though, so he'll just have to hope that J understands.

J lets out the breath he's been holding, nodding slightly. He knew he was nervous to give this, but it felt too right not to. He just hadn't quite realized how nervous until S was holding it, opening it. "You don't have to play it if you don't want to," he says, careful, not wanting to trip over his words when it feels important. "I... I don't think you play much anymore. But if you wanted to... I like that one." S knows that. It came to J first that day, not because it mattered most — he would have played their song first had it not still felt fraught — but because it's one he still thinks of fondly. He never played it for a competition, he didn't write it clearly, it was never homework. There's nothing unpleasant attached to it, except for how it reminds him of missing his mother, but that's always going to be something bittersweet. Between playing it at Kagura and S's reaction now, he has tentative hopes to bring out more of the sweet.

The fact that he's not even sure how often S plays anymore, that he's only guessing based on the briefest of references and a lot of omission — he knows that's on him. He doubts S would want him to call it his own fault, but it is. Still, S has been so patient with him as he figures out how he wants to approach music again, but he loved music too. If he doesn't really anymore, that would be on J too. He can't say he never wanted that. There were, he's sure of it, jealous moments in his past when he wished S would stop, when it hurt to hear him play, light and effortless, while J struggled so desperately. And he can't just dismiss all that as something that wasn't real, a product of his being out of his mind, because even if he was half-mad at the time, even if he's still a bit so now, the hurt he caused was too real by far.

"And," he says, still cautious, trying not to sound more casual than he feels, "if you don't play for me, I'll understand. Do what you want with it." He misses it in a way he wouldn't have thought possible for a long time. But if he were S, he wouldn't want to play for him either. Still, even if that's the case, maybe S will enjoy playing it at work. At least he'll know J feels the same way S has expressed towards him so many times now, that great wealth of patience and compassion S shows him every time the subject comes up, supporting him whatever he chooses. He should have been able to show S the same love a long time ago, but that doesn't mean he can't start now.

He does want to play it. The realization and the force of that desire hit hard and sudden, as much of a shock as the gift itself, surprise written clearly on S's face. For months, back in Seoul, he had no real will to play, but he also had no real will to do much of anything besides make the professor pay, alone and injured and miserable. Here, he's maintained a careful distance instead, trying not to let himself want it — as with so much else, the same as J was doing, he thinks, just different. Doing so has been easier than he once would have expected when, like he told J one night, he really doesn't love it the way he used to and hasn't in a long time, and he still gives himself space to play a little, some part of him counterintuitively hoping every time that it might rekindle something. It never does.

Music was theirs, after all, something he loved as much as he did because they shared it. He enjoyed it well enough before that, but the passion he once had for it blossomed when it was something they did together, then wilted when it was something that came between them instead, and he's never been able to revive it, maybe because, although he has J back now, that piece is still gone. And it's worth it, it is, to be happy with J and without piano. He never wanted either of them to have to choose, but if it could only be one or the other, for him, it would be no contest at all. He'd pick J every time, no matter the price, and it isn't as if he's ever gotten anything that didn't come at a cost anyway.

But he wants to play it. He wants to play it for J, too, and he doesn't know how he possibly could, and that hurts even more than he let himself have any awareness of before now. "I miss it," he blurts out without meaning to, whispered still, his eyes falling closed as he lifts the box of music to hold to his chest. "I miss it so fucking much." It's cruel, probably, to say so, to make J that much more aware of what he's choosing to give up. He doesn't want to do this, to get all emotional on Christmas, to drag the subject in an entirely unpleasant direction. But he misses it, and he can't bury that fact when J is here extending it to him and he still doesn't feel like he can take it.

There's one thing he can do, though, and he seizes on that when it occurs to him, a way of redirecting things just a little and talking around the bigger, messier truth at hand here. "I'll play it," he says. "I promise I will."

It's a hard subject for both of them, J knows that. The fact that S works around music all the time... J just assumed he still played now and then, if not very often. When he says it like that, though, J can't be sure anymore, and he wants to ask, he wants to know everything, and he's not sure that's fair and he's not sure he should. S waited until he was ready to talk, even if it was in the dead of night and they were half-asleep and upset. He waited, and he encouraged J to do this exactly how he wants, not to play because he feels he has to or to stop for the same reason, just to do it if he feels he can. He's been perfect every step of the way, never making J feel anything less than supported. It's a trust that J broke a long time ago, and he's been so lost trying to repair his own understanding of what music is for him now that he doesn't think he's ever really made an effort to do the same for S. He just made assumptions and put it aside. And even if some part of him knows it's what he's had to do, that he can't take on everything at the same time or he'll break, he also feels selfish for it. He needs to do what he can to stay steady, he knows that, but there's a lot of fixing he needs to do, a lot of effort he needs to make. He's still trying to be better than he was, and he knows he's succeeded in a lot of ways, but he's still falling short in his own estimation.

He reaches out, hand resting on S's, and nods. "Okay," he says, and then gives up on that, setting the camera to the side so he can inch closer, slipping his arms around S's waist again. "Sorry," he adds quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you." He's not sure it's entirely a bad upset. It stings, yes, knowing S misses music so badly, but if it means that much, then he thinks maybe it's a good present, too, that S saying he loved it was in earnest, and that's got to count for something. Even if S only plays it at work, even if he never hears him play again — and that's something J has thought many times, but he thinks it sinks in now in a way it hasn't before, that maybe he never will — it's still something. They've recovered so much and done so well, but there are some things that might always be broken, and he still doesn't entirely know how to handle that, but even if music's been taken from them as a pair — even if he ruined it for them, really — he doesn't want S to lose it entirely.

He wants to say he misses it, but that doesn't feel fair. He's the one who pushed them apart, who damaged all of this. He doesn't get to say that and risk guilting S into playing around him if he doesn't want to. Instead he reaches up, fingers brushing through S's hair, and leans in to kiss his cheek.

Instinctively, S wants to say that J didn't upset him. It wouldn't quite be true, though. He is upset. Still, in a way, he thinks he might have needed to be. He didn't know until now just how much he's missed it — missed playing like he used to, missed the drive he had, and more than anything else, missed playing with J. Even if he never gets any of it back, maybe it's better to have that awareness, to be honest at least with himself about it, than to bury it entirely. Maybe it's less of a loss if he lets himself feel it. Regardless, he doesn't want today to be about that, and he certainly doesn't want J to have to feel guilty about what really is such a sweet gift.

Sniffling a little, he shakes his head, carefully setting the music aside so he can lean into J without crumpling the paper at all, reaching for him with one newly freed hand. "Please don't apologize," he murmurs, fingers curling gently around J's wrist. "You don't need to be sorry. Really. This is..." It says a lot, really, that J would get him something to encourage him to play. Even if he can't respond in kind, even if it still doesn't seem worth the risk — something that J might support in theory but that would do too much damage in practice — it's deeply touching regardless. The piece itself is, too, really. Not as much as some others with more history between them, but he knows it can't be accidental that this is the first one J played after all those months, after thinking he'd never play again. Even that wasn't what it once would have been, with him sitting beside J solely for support, not to play with him, but he knows what a big deal that was. Whatever he does with the sheet music he's been given, this is, too.

It used to all but go without saying that they would get sheet music for each other, the surprise less the gift itself and more what pieces they would have chosen, and then they inevitably wound up practicing together anyway. Now he wonders if maybe he should have gotten J something along those lines after all instead of steering clear of it. He hadn't wanted to push the subject, but he's wanted to be encouraging, and now might have missed the chance for it today. Still, it's hard to say how that would have gone, if both having gotten music would have been too close to the way things were before. It aches to think so, but he knows they'll never get that time back. In so many ways, what they have now is even better, so he can't regret that at all, but it's still something of a loss in its own right.

S doesn't want Christmas to be about that. There are more than enough ways that the holiday season will always be a little bittersweet now, in the absence of his parents, without dwelling on the rest of what they no longer have.

"It means a lot," he settles on, continuing his own trailed-off sentence, his voice still a little wobbly. "That you would get this for me."

There's an odd sort of relief in that being the case — not just that J's choice didn't turn out terribly, but that it means a lot to S. It means he was right, that he understood the situation without S telling him, and that means a lot to him, too, not to have misread or fucked this up. And it's awful to know he's probably right, too, about why it means a lot, but he's never tried to pretend that the things he did weren't terrible, not since he got here. There might be a wide scale of wrongs, and discouraging S — actively resenting him, turning him away — may not be the worst he did, but maybe it's not too late to undo a little of the damage even so.

He draws in a breath, thumb tracing over S's cheek. "I know things are different," he says softly. "I know I..." He huffs out a rueful laugh. "Wasn't exactly supportive." That's putting it so mildly it might as well be a joke. Still, he doubts S wants to talk about this in depth right now. If he does, J will follow his lead, but he doesn't think it's likely. He already seemed worried that he'd ruined things and gotten J upset, and it's true that his gift made J deeply emotional, but this has the potential to make things worse. He didn't think this through, he realizes now, as fully as he thought. Still, it seems to have worked out. "I regret that."

He hesitates, not sure what more he wants to say, not sure what he should hold back for a better time, or even what he should put into words. Briefly he considers grabbing another gift to give S, but he doesn't want to extract himself from S's hold yet. Leaning in, he kisses his cheek again. "I love you so, so much, darling."

Although it really isn't funny at all, what J says is such an understatement that S can't help the soft laugh he lets out as well, thin and watery. Things were such a mess, increasingly so, that last year. Of course J wasn't supportive. S doesn't want to say anything about it, though, mostly because he fears that if he does, it will seem like some sign of resentment or a grudge being held when that really isn't true. It's the same reason why he doesn't want to say outright that he can't play for J. There isn't a single doubt in his mind that things won't go back to the way they were then, and while he can acknowledge that J, at his worst, could be cruel, it isn't something S holds against him now. Things have changed. They've changed, and it isn't as if only one of them can be blamed for their relationship falling apart.

He just can't see how he would ever be comfortable, how he'd get out of his head, worried that any note could bring some of J's insecurity back or seem like an issued challenge. Any playing he does now will be for himself and because he wants to do it. Even leaving any room for comparison seems like too much. However much he might miss playing more often and how it used to make him feel, he's been fine these last months, and he'll continue to be. That's just the only way forward he can see for now.

"I know," he murmurs, not wanting to let what J has said go without a response. Understatement or not, this is still a serious subject, and not one about which he wants to risk seeming dismissive. Leaning forward just a little, he rests his forehead against J's, thumb idly stroking his wrist where his hand still rests. "I love you, too. And this... Ah, it's such a nice gift."

It's that little laugh that makes J relax again, just a touch, steadying his breathing a bit. It's a good thing, he tells himself. This was the right choice. Whatever S decides to do from here on out, he'll support that, and at least now he's found a way to say it. He doesn't have a right to ask for more than that. If anything, he'll try his best to follow S's lead, to learn from him how to be better, more supportive. Some things about their relationship, their lives, have changed fundamentally. A lot of that isn't easy, and it takes time for him to adjust. He'll just have to remember this is on the list of those things, the need to hold himself back, to refrain from pressuring S or asking to hear him play, the need to accept that those days are gone.

"Good," he says softly, smiling just a little. "I worried about it." It's a tiny confession, really, when he worries about most things. He doesn't want S to think this was just some silly whim, though, or him forgetting how much things have changed. Tipping his head ever so slightly forward, he presses a soft kiss to S's lips. "I'm glad you like it. When I saw that piece, I thought it would be perfect." His other hand dropping to S's waist, he otherwise stays just where he is. When he's feeling emotional — which is, admittedly, much of the time — sometimes he needs space and sometimes he desperately needs closeness. He doesn't want to push S away if he needs a few more moments. "I promise everything else is boring."

That last statement draws another tiny laugh from S, one he follows with a kiss, as gentle and brief as that which preceded it. He still feel dangerously emotional, and he suspects he would, at any other time, just give in and fall apart, more overwhelmed than seems fair in response to a Christmas gift. It's hard, realizing just how much he's missed music and the way he used to feel about it and especially sharing it with J. Until now, it really did seem like enough to be able to play a little at work if and when he felt particularly compelled to do so. If it was, though, it can be again. It has to be. That's one thing he doesn't see how they could ever get back, and he can't be bothered by that when they've already gotten so much more than should even have been possible. He has J, and that's all he needs. All he ever should have needed, too. Maybe if he had just let music be J's instead of trying to share it, everything wouldn't have fallen apart the way it did.

And he knows, he knows it isn't fair to think like that, but the whole subject is such a mess, maybe even more so now, with J so sweetly offering this to him. He could easily be a mess, too, if he let himself. It's Christmas, though, and he really doesn't want to ruin it. J has sounded so careful and so worried. It wouldn't seem right to let him think this was a misstep when it really wasn't at all, just deeply complicated.

"It is perfect," he says, breathing slowly to try to keep himself composed. Emotional though he may be, he means it, too. It hurts, but it's still perfect; the gesture of it will be even if he doesn't wind up playing it after all. Part of him wants just to crawl into J's lap right now, but he stays put instead, still gently holding onto him. "Don't worry, the rest of yours are boring, too, now that you have the camera open."

"I'm not worried about what you got me," J says, gently wry. As much as he likes presents in theory, they're a more complicated matter for him in practice, and anyway, they matter much less than being here with S now. Besides, he's excited to try the camera. He remembers how it was the few times he used them in the past, how different film is. But that was when it was incredibly expensive to get a few shots and have them developed. He doubts it's precisely cheap now, but it's got to be much, much more affordable, the old pressure to get a good shot eased by access to film. And, too, being able to develop it himself — well, that will take practice, and he'll need to make himself get used to the idea he might ruin a few photos in the process, and that's probably a good thing.

He's more concerned by far about what he got S. The rest of it really isn't very exciting, by his estimation — small, simple things, things that will hopefully make S smile. He even took a chance on some accessories, mostly things to keep S warm when he goes out, but for those he made himself focus more on finding a scarf and gloves that will be cozy and warm, the nicest quality he could afford so they'll last, trying to pick styles S would pick for himself. This was the only one that felt like a real risk, and that brings up all kinds of emotions, but he's glad he tried. Even if S sounds... bruised, really, J still believes him. Perfect, after all, isn't exactly uncomplicated.

Drawing S closer, he pulls him in for another kiss, slower this time, though still sweet. "I love the camera," he adds softly. "Ah, I can't wait to try it out, really." He lets out a tiny sigh, thumb stroking S's cheek again. "Okay, darling?" He isn't going to push. Some part of him is dying to know what's going through S's head, what he's thinking about, what he wants. But he also knows S won't want to disturb the peace of the day, and he doesn't want to either. If S wants to talk, he's given him room to do so. If he doesn't, well, J can prod him a bit later if he really can't keep himself quiet, but he'll try his best.

Instinctive and determined, S nods in response to the question, though he doesn't pull away at all to do so. He should, probably. Opening the rest of their gifts would probably be the perfect distraction from the tangle of emotions that this has brought to the surface, and though he doesn't want to brush off J's gift, he likewise doesn't want to ruin the mood. It's got to be silly, really, to be so set on making today as good as possible. It's Christmas, yes, their first back together, but it's also just another day, and even the best times in their relationship haven't been without complications and sadness. Life, he's pretty sure, just doesn't work that way.

Still, this is something particularly fraught. How bad things were before, the things he still wishes he could change, how much it aches to feel like something that once was theirs never can be again — this isn't the time for any of that, if there ever will be at all. The way things are has been fine. He has use of a piano when he wants it, even if he wishes that he wanted it more than he does, and J has room to pursue it as much or as little as he wants without comparing the two of them. Every time he thinks about it, he comes to the same conclusion. It's just the best way forward, and the very fact of that hurts too much to dwell on it now, especially when he suspects it would hurt J just as much, if not more.

"I'm okay," he promises, voice soft, but steadier now. Leaning in again, he presses a kiss to J's cheek this time, then gives in and lets his head drop forward to J's shoulder. He does not let himself cry, though it would be far too easy to do so, but he breathes J in for a moment, savors how it feels to have him warm and close, the best possible reminder of why he can't risk trying to recapture that one piece of their past. "I really am. It's just a fair trade, anyway. Now we've both almost made each other cry with Christmas presents."

There's nothing fair about it, really, and J's pretty sure that what the two of them call okay would make other people crumble. They've just dealt with too much to do so now. He wishes that made him feel strong or brave. Instead, it just makes him a little sad.

What does give him strength, though, is this, the gentle weight of S's head on his shoulder. He finally lets his hand drop from S's cheek, arms wrapping around him more fully as he turns his head to kiss S's hair. "I think I really did cry a little," he admits. It was only a couple tears, but that still counts, or it does when he wants to distract S. He's too dramatic by far, they both know that. It's nice to feel okay making fun of himself for that sometimes, when there are plenty of moments when being reminded that he's over-sensitive would only make him more upset, even angry. "But only because it was perfect."

He's not sure how or even if he would have navigated this year without S. Even with him at J's side, there have been so many days J felt overwhelmed by life, and upset with himself for being upset when he has so much now, when he's so lucky. Whether or not S meant for his gift to be something that would make J emotional, he managed to make J feel seen, some unspoken reassurance that it's okay that he's still struggling with that part of himself. Saying any of that, though, feels likely to put them back on the path to tears.

"Do you want to open something else?" he asks, resting his head against S's. "Or do you just want me to hold you a while?" Even as he says it, he suspects he knows what S will choose, and he realizes that he really wants the latter himself. He doesn't want to bask in the bittersweetness so long they get weighed down by it, but he also just likes how this feels — to be warm and safe and loved, to be together in their own home at Christmas under their own tree, wrapped up in each other's arms.

He does want J just to hold him for a while. S can't think of anything he would like more right now, really, than to have the comfort of staying wrapped up in J's arms for a while, shaken and vulnerable as he feels, even if he doesn't want to admit the extent of it. If he gives into that, though, he knows there's no way he'll be able to maintain his already flimsy composure, and he can't fall apart like that. Not now, on Christmas, when he really is so appreciative of the gift J has given him. Later, maybe, maybe they can talk about it some more, though he doesn't really know what the point would be. Nothing he can say would change the situation any. It probably wouldn't give him any clarity, either. Chances are, they would both just wind up feeling worse, and whether on Christmas or not, they don't need that.

"I don't want to cry on you," he admits, nose wrinkling a little though he hasn't lifted his head yet, voice sheepish. Whatever he thinks it's better not to say, he can at least be honest about that part, trusting that J will get it. It's been an emotional subject for him, too. That's part of why this gift means so much. They might never get back the way things used to be when music was something they shared — S doesn't know how they could — but between how resentful J was of him for so long and how much he's struggled to figure out his own relationship to music now, having this extended to him now is no small thing, regardless of what he feels able to do with it.

A little reluctant, and probably visibly so, he makes himself sit up again. Although he stays close, not otherwise moving away, he reaches over to find one of the presents he got J, remembering well enough from the shape and size of it which one it is. J can't very well use a camera without film; there are a few rolls in a box, enough to get him started and to leave some room for practice and trial and error, too. "This one's yours."

"You can cry on me if you need to," J says, but S has already pulled away a bit, and he's not going to push S to do that when he doesn't want to. If S wants to move on to their next gifts, then that's what they'll do. Knowing them, he tells himself, it's not like the feelings will stay pushed down for long. If S wants to talk about it later, he will.

So for now, he takes the gift S has offered him, still a bit distracted but no less pleased for it. "I can tell," he adds, lightly teasing. "Since I don't remember wrapping it. Go on, you open something too." He doesn't wait, though, for S to do so before he begins turning the present in his hands, looking for a good place to pull the paper off. "Or do you want me to hand you one?" He can't even fully remember which one is which at this point. There aren't a great many gifts, but they mostly fit into similar sized boxes, aside from the sheet music. Still, he knows which ones he got, at least, and sometimes it's fun to pick them out for each other. By this point, he's got the paper off, opening the box to find a few rolls of film, and he grins. "Ah, perfect."

There are few enough that J doesn't have to feel S went overboard, spending on him, but several enough that he should be able to enjoy learning how to use the camera without worrying about running out too quickly. It's lovely, really. He didn't expect the camera at all, but he's already itching to put the film in and try. And also to figure out exactly how to do that, because he doesn't actually know, now that he thinks of it.

J's response is exactly what S expects, really, but still, he knows he can't let himself give into that impulse now. Part of him feels a little guilty for it, knowing how much J has encouraged him to open up more in turn, but this just isn't the time. He doesn't know how he would pull himself out of it when there's no solution here, at least none that he can see, and it isn't like it matters that much anyway. As much as he misses it — playing more, loving it the way he used to, having it be something they shared — he's lost and missed a lot of things that he can't get back. None of it is, could ever be, as important as being with J, and if that means keeping a distance from what he once thought was what he wanted to do with his life, then that's just the way it has to be. As long as it's a life spent like this, the rest doesn't matter.

"Later, maybe," he says, expression and voice both softening a little, his hand finding J's for a moment to give it a gentle squeeze. He doesn't want to be dismissive, J's support more meaningful to him than he knows how to express. He just can't stand the thought of bringing their Christmas down any more than he already has. It means too much to see J smile like this, to know he got something right with the present he picked out, to savor what a sweet gesture the sheet music from J is. Maybe it's a little silly when it's just a day, but it's a special one. If he needs to cry about the realization of just how much he misses music, there's no reason he can't do so tomorrow or the day after instead.

"For now..." He trails off, glancing away from J only to let his gaze skim over the presents that he didn't put under the tree, reaching over to grab one at random. "Mm, I think I'll open this one."

J squeezes his hand back, holding onto that moment to soothe his worries. It's all a mess, he knew it was, and it probably always will be, and maybe it was stupid of him to try and make some kind of gesture towards he doesn't even know what now, some sort of peace for a part of their past that won't ever be peaceful, and he can't expect S to sit and try and unravel that now, not just because it's Christmas and he wants Christmas to be pleasant, but also because they simply haven't tried to address it in any real way thus far and that's probably not going to change today. It makes him uneasy, having that unsettled. It didn't before, but he hadn't brought it up, even obliquely, and he has now, even if that wasn't entirely his intention. But S wants to move on, and it's for the best. He says later, maybe, and J doesn't know if that's true, but he at least hears S reaching back, and that's enough to calm a little of his lingering nerves.

It helps, too, to see S reach for a box, ready to open it. It gives J something else to focus on, turning a roll of film over in his hands for no reason but to touch something, to move. "Mm," he echoes, nodding. He can't quite remember which one that is — the scarf, possibly, the softest J could find, long enough S can bundle it around his neck a few times against the cold, a dark but warm forest green J thinks will look pretty with his eyes. Or it might be the gloves, as close in shade to the scarf as he could find, soft and lined, with something special done to the fingertips so he can use the touchscreen on his phone without taking them off, the better for J to besiege him with messages while he's out. It is, he's pretty sure, one of those, because he somehow managed to fit the scarf into the same kind of gift box he bought for the gloves, since they came in a pack of two and he knew he'd just end up wrapping them into a weird paper lump with horrible shreds of tape at odd spots if he didn't box them first. "Ah, if you end up not liking it — whichever one that is, any of them — you can always exchange it for something else, of course."

S is sure it won't come to that, but having offered the same disclaimer himself, it isn't as if he can dispute it. He nods instead, giving J a small smile as he starts to unwrap the package, still careful with the paper, though he doubts they'll reuse it. There isn't anyone else either of them needs to give a Christmas gift to. Maybe that's a little sad, but he doesn't think so, not really. They've both been through so much, and spent so much time apart. Neither of them has ever been especially social anyway, but this past year, it's seemed important just to be with each other, to rebuild. Connecting with other people has mattered even less than ever, and he's never needed anyone but J anyway, had no one at all before he got here.

The thought of it makes him newly tempted just to curl up in J's arms for a while, but S focuses instead on the present he's opening, taking the top off the box — this one does seem like clothes — and touching the fabric inside. "What is it?" he asks, pleased, as he lifts it out of the box, the shape of a scarf quickly becoming apparent, S's smile curling wider as it does. "A scarf? Ah, it's so soft." It's been getting colder lately, and though the walk to work is bearable, it will be nice to have something warm and soft to wrap himself up in for it, which he suspects may have been a consideration. The deep, rich green is beautiful, too. "I love it. Thank you."

When they're not buying music for each other, he thinks they've both always favored more practical gifts. Photography equipment isn't exactly that, but it sort of is, if only in how insensible it would have been to get J a camera and none of the supplies to use with it. There's still photo paper in two different sizes, developing chemicals, and a camera bag for J to open, plus an empty photo album, all things that he hopes will get some use. "Open whichever one you want next. I wasn't kidding about the rest of them being boring, though."

He doesn't mind that terribly much. Already this is more than he thinks he's ever been able to do for J for Christmas before, and the camera was better received than he even hoped it would be.

J relaxes further, pleased by the reception of the scarf. He generally doesn't get clothes for S, since their senses of style are so different, but in the absence of music, he ended up reaching for different things this time around. Besides, with how cold it gets these days, he likes knowing S will be able to bundle up and to think of him while he's out there. More, at least, than he already does.

He inches closer, picking up one end of the scarf and holding it up, his own presents ignored for a moment. Touching it to S's cheek, he smiles. "Ah, there," he says warmly, "I thought so. It looks pretty with your eyes." S has beautiful eyes as it is, of course, but this color complements the rich brown of them while also being something S has little of in his wardrobe already. Now that he's sitting closer again, though, J can't resist leaning closer, drawing S to him for a kiss. Christmas is just for them, after all, and there's no one to bother if they take their time with the gifts and each other.

He would have, he thinks, bought S something like this when they were younger, too, if he'd had the money for something high quality. An ordinary scarf would have been too dull a gift, but he thinks they probably needed things like this even more back then, their studio colder than this cozy apartment with its central heating. It's nice to be able to do such a thing now, though, hence the scarf and the gloves. "I almost got you earmuffs to keep you warmer, too," he teases, "but I didn't think you'd want to wear big fuzzy ones to work, no matter how cute you'd look."

S ducks his head, shy but pleased, when J lifts one end of the scarf to hold up to his face. It's certainly not how he would have thought about it himself, but he can't pretend he doesn't like being complimented by his boyfriend, or that J had the way it would look on him in mind when he picked it out. The practicality of a soft, warm scarf, long enough to be wrapped around his neck a few times, would have made it a nice enough gift, but knowing that J picked it for the look of it, too, makes it that much nicer.

On a whim, when J has let go of the scarf again, S loops it around his neck a couple times now, shooting J a smile as he does. It's warm enough in their apartment, which is, really, a welcome change from past Christmases, but there's no reason not to wear the scarf for a while, silly as it must look paired with the clothes he slept in.

"You're the only person who would think I look cute in them," he points out, teasing, his nose scrunching a little as he does. "Really, though, this is perfect." It reminds him abruptly of when J first got here, the two of them having only one coat and one scarf between them. Fraught as that time was, it's something he thinks back on fondly, too, the two of them starting to piece their relationship back together, coming home to each other at last. "You open something next."

It's a little thing, S putting the scarf on like that, but it makes J light up unconsciously, happy to see he likes it. He's so cute, too, the way he looks almost shy at the compliment, as if J hasn't said much, much more than that about his looks in the past.

"I think anyone who saw you would think you were cute," he counters, scanning the assorted presents for ones he knows he didn't wrap, then reaching for the nearest one. "I could have gotten one with fuzzy animal ears, cat ears maybe, and anyone would think you were adorable." He wouldn't actually do that to S, of course, though if they ever encountered such a pair in a store, he'd put it on S immediately. He just likes teasing. "You'd be a very cute cat." As he speaks, he runs his fingers over the paper until he finds the end of the tape, tearing it away, pulling free a bag of some kind. It's not a briefcase or a backpack or a purse, but it seems like it could be worn as the latter, the strap long enough to go over his neck. He doesn't really go out all that much, so it isn't something he's thought worth getting for himself, especially since he no longer has schoolwork to carry — not that this is quite the right size for that anyway — but it's actually nice and seems really sturdy. "Ah, this is really nice."

"Cat ears?" S repeats, pulling a face, though there's no real displeasure in it. He doesn't have any particular interest in wearing earmuffs that look like cat ears, but he knows that J is just as aware of it as he is, and Christmas or not, he doesn't think either of them is all that prone to giving frivolous gifts. They've never had enough money for that. Darrow has offered more stability in that regard, between his job and the money they both get from the city, but he still doubts they're about to go in a more extravagant direction. Everything he got is meant to be used; he's willing to bet that the same is true for J, too.

With the way J picks up the bag, though, S is pretty sure that he doesn't know what it's for, which is bizarrely endearing. Biting back a wider smile, he nods toward it and explains, "It's for the camera. So you don't have to just carry it around. And there are pockets for film and lenses and that sort of thing." He didn't get any additional lenses for J's camera, at least not this time around. There were so many choices, and he didn't know yet how the camera itself would be received. If J does wind up taking to it, though, it might be a good option to have for future special occasions.

And that's still nice, too, thinking ahead to future Christmases and birthdays and anniversaries, knowing they might just get that. It has him distracted enough that he almost forgets to reach for another present, grinning sheepishly as he finally does so.

J's ready to conjure up some elaborate vision of S in cat ears for his own personal amusement and S's mortification when S saves them both by explaining. His eyes widen a bit and he opens one of the pockets and then the top of the bag itself, increasingly pleased as he understands. "Ah, you thought of everything," he says warmly. It makes much more sense now. He has so little to carry these days, and what he has, he usually just keeps in his pockets. Of course if he takes the camera out, he'll want a way to carry more film and such, and of course he'll want to take it out. Once he gets the hang of it, he knows he won't be satisfied taking pictures of the same rooms over and over. The only subject he'll never tire of is S. "Thank you, darling."

Eyeing the package in S's hands, he does a quick mental check of what he got and what it might be. It's not the gloves, which leaves only the nice faux-leather journal and the small plush cat, appropriately enough, the one truly frivolous purchase he made. It was, though, the cheapest of the gifts he picked out, a whim he really couldn't resist caving to, just a small cat doll with black and white fur and ridiculous plasticky whiskers. He has fewer things to give than to receive under the tree, but he tries not to let himself get bothered by that. It would be easy to make himself feel bad, as if he had somehow failed, but he reminds himself there's a whole cake in the kitchen that says otherwise. Reaching for the camera, he tries to put it carefully into the bag while still watching S.

"I tried to," S says, pleased, if a little sheepish again. He's pretty sure, actually, that he didn't think of everything, not knowledgeable enough for that, but he at least tried to get all the basics, to get everything J might need to start figuring this out. Film and paper and something to carry the camera in, that all just seemed like common sense. He doesn't want to downplay it too much, though, when it seems like he really has actually gotten something right here. It means more than he would know how to say to have done so, something bizarrely comforting about it. Most of the time, at least, he's secure in the belief that he knows J well. Given how things once fell apart, though, there are moments he second-guesses himself, times he can't quite help but doubt.

With this, though, given J's reaction, he thinks he must have done even better than he let himself hope. They're just presents, and God knows they've been content enough without much in the way of those before. On the other hand, though, maybe something for J to do, a creative outlet like he hasn't really had in a while, might be something a little bit more than that. Really, it doesn't matter as long as J is happy with it, which he seems to be. That in itself means as much to S as any gifts he could open himself.

He does want to see the rest, though, curious about what else J might have gotten. For just a moment, he watches J fiddling with the camera bag, smiling as he does, then he starts unwrapping the present he's picked for himself. Despite its flat, rectangular shape, he isn't expecting the notebook he finds under the wrapping paper, nicely bound in what's either leather or something that looks and feels like it. "It's beautiful," he says, hand smoothing over the cover. "Thank you."

Edited 2022-01-15 10:41 (UTC)

J fidgets a little, toying with the strap of the camera bag, though he's pleased S likes the notebook. "Ah, I — it helps me sometimes," he says, "when I write things down." S knows this well. He's kept a diary for years. When he left, it was a habit he needed all the more, because there was no one for him to talk to. If he didn't write things down, they'd just echo off his own skull, cycling endlessly. Putting pen to paper doesn't always do much, but it usually at least allows him to think a little bit more clearly for a brief while, and that can make a big difference.

S is in better shape, of course, than J was then or is now, but it helped J even before he started to feel his grasp on sanity slipping away from him, and S has dealt with so much. When J knows that most of that was because of him, he can imagine there must be things S doesn't want to discuss with him. "I thought maybe you'd want to, too. Or, I don't know, make grocery lists with it." He laughs, a bit sheepish. "Whatever you like."

The gift would be thoughtful enough anyway, especially with how nicely bound the notebook is. Hearing J's explanation for it, though, makes it that much nicer — touching, really, in a way S wouldn't quite know how to put into words. He knows how helpful writing in a journal can be for J, having long since grown familiar with that particular habit of his, even before that last diary, the one he still has carefully tucked away where neither of them will stumble upon it without warning. Somehow, he's never given that much thought to using one himself. He had J, and then he had no one, and there was too much he didn't want to let become real. If he tried to spot J on campus, if he called and hoped that J would pick up the phone, then there was still a chance they could get back together. The weight of all that loneliness didn't quite catch up to him until later.

He isn't lonely now, but if he's really honest with himself, there are still things he struggles with sometimes, things he wouldn't want to tell J. It's not keeping secrets, he thinks, when there's no need to share it. There's no one else he's a fraction as open with, though; if there were, he thinks that would make it feel like secrecy to take those matters elsewhere. Having something to do with them, even just putting them down on paper, might not be a bad idea, and being offered that is unexpectedly sweet.

"I won't waste a nice notebook on grocery lists," he promises, leaning over to press a quick kiss to J's cheek. "I don't know what I'll write, but I'll write something."

That quick kiss is all it takes to make J brighten, the faint cloud of self-consciousness giving way to sunshine. He knows now, as well as he ever could, that if there's anyone in the world, in any world, who won't judge him, it's S. That doesn't make him any less alert as he gives these gifts. It's been a long time since they exchanged Christmas presents, and this is the first year J hasn't been able to fall back on music in some way. Explaining why he picked things is a surprisingly vulnerable process, though perhaps that's more because it's been, all in all, a terribly vulnerable year.

"It's not a waste," he says, "whatever you do with it. But, ah, if it helps — if you need it to — I'm glad." He reaches for another present, feeling really very spoiled already, but enjoying that. There's an awkward squirminess to it, because he's really not used to getting many gifts, but he's getting a little bit more accustomed, bit by bit, to not having to watch their budget quite so closely and, anyway, he sometimes likes the feeling of being fussed over, as long as the context is positive. Even as he starts to unwrap it, he continues speaking. "Sometimes I just write down..." His hands fidget against the half-peeled paper, and he glances up, wrinkling up his nose. "The voice, you know. What it says. If I see it written down, sometimes I can see how stupid it is."

He used to write it all out as fact, blindly following, taken it all as a given. It helps now, gives some clarity, to try and find the lie.

There are things that S knows he'll never understand, not entirely. Whatever goes on in J's head that makes him think the way he does sometimes — what J's dubbed the voice — is among them. It has seemed to help J, though, to describe it as such, and S knows what he's referring to, and those two things are all that really matter. As much as he doesn't want or know how to say it outright, it really is touching, too, the implicit acknowledgment that he might have things he needs to get out of his head as well. Actually talking to each other about things they're dealing with is something he thinks they've both worked on a lot over this past year, but there are still things S doesn't feel like he can touch, burdens he wouldn't want to lay on J's shoulders. Granted, none of it is anything he's really sure of what to do with for himself, either, better kept buried, left untouched. He doesn't have the first idea how he would begin to write about any of it, but it couldn't hurt to at least try, and it's a nice gesture.

"I think you've kept a journal for as long as I've known you," he says, nose scrunching slightly as he smiles. "If it helps you, maybe it would help me, too." He doesn't want to ignore what J has said, after all; he also doesn't want to make too much of it, especially not now. The package J is opening is the photo paper, he thinks — another gift that probably isn't very exciting, but necessary, nothing that a camera would be much good without. Not one like this, anyway. "Ah, this one isn't much."

J smiles and shakes his head. S is right, he's pretty sure. He doesn't even quite remember when he started. Even as a child, though, there were things he couldn't share with anyone. He only had his mother back then, and he didn't want to worry or burden her. Any delicately forged friendships from his very early years, before the other kids were thoroughly warned away from him, had long since vanished. The piano and his journal were the only confidants he could find before he met S. He hopes it's true then. The journal doesn't solve anything, but it helps sometimes, and if that's all it does, that's all that matters.

"I had no one else to talk to before you knew me," he points out, gently wry. "Ah, not much, you liar. A film camera's not much good if you can't make the photos... develop." He tilts his head to the side, considering that, then nods, fairly certain that's the correct word to use. "I don't even completely understand how that works. I never thought much about it. Chemicals in a dark room somewhere, right?" He huffs out a soft laugh. "Well, now I'll never have to think again about whether or not a picture is okay for other people to see before I take it."

He had no one else to talk to, either. S thinks about that sometimes — how lonely he was before, J, even without fully realizing it at the time. He wasn't made an outcast like J was, after all, and got along well enough with their classmates, if only in passing. None of them were friends, people he could open up to. He didn't really even know what that was, what he was missing, until he had it. Finding J changed everything. So, for that matter, did getting J back. He may have had no one else to talk to before J knew him, but he had no one to talk to when J was gone, either. The thought makes him want to curl close again, maybe rest his head in J's lap for a while, not unpleasant, just a little bittersweet.

Instead, he focuses on what J has said, how quietly amusing it is. Gift-wrapping bottles of chemicals seemed a little strange, difficult to pass off as presents; as a middle ground, he's put them all in a gift bag, tissue paper bundled around them, as neat as he can manage. "Chemicals in a dark room somewhere," he confirms, a little wry, reaching for the bag and pushing it over to J. Slightly silly as it may feel, he wanted to make sure J would have everything he'd need to get started, that it wouldn't be work, or something he would have to spend money on, right off the bat. "I don't know much about it, either, I just got what the woman at the store told me someone would need to get started, but we'll find a good space for you to use."

He would offer to help J figure it out, but he thinks it's better if he doesn't. The part he hasn't mentioned is that he wants J to have something that's his, nothing with any competition or sense of being behind. That has to at least help.

S mentioned something about that earlier, J recalls, a small room or a tent, he thinks, something to that effect, but the bag pushed toward him makes it feel more solid somehow. There are bottles inside of liquids he doesn't know, things marked fixer and developer and stop bath and such that probably wouldn't make any more sense to him even if he translated them mentally into Korean, if only because he doesn't actually know what those words would be. There's something a little bit daunting about how much there is to learn and figure out, but it's exciting, too, a whole new adventure to set out on.

"I don't know what any of it does," he says, laughing a little, all lit up, even a bit flushed. It's impossible for him not to be moved by this. "You really did... you got everything I'll need." He must have spent a lot of time planning this and making decisions and asking for help to find just the right things, and J didn't have a single clue. He shakes his head, smiling as he looks at the bottles and sets them back in the bag, surrounded by their layers of tissue paper. "This is wonderful. Really, just... thank you." It's dizzying to think of the care S took to get this and to keep it secret and to make sure he had everything, not even knowing for certain if J would like it. He's glad, then, that he really does love it. If he hadn't, he would have had to be honest, albeit delicately so, because it would be a waste of money otherwise, but he prefers not having to put them both through the hassle and disappointment of that.

"I tried to," S says, a little sheepish again. The more he got, the more risky it felt, but it still seemed better to take that risk than to give J only a few pieces of this, leaving him to figure out the rest for himself. Unwanted gifts could be returned if necessary, and he would have put the same money towards figuring out alternate gifts instead, even if they would have been slightly belated ones. He hoped, though, that it wouldn't come to that, that he wasn't off the mark with this, only partly for the damper it would have put on Christmas and the trouble of returning all of it. Mostly, he wanted to do something nice for J, to make him happy, and though he knew there was a chance it wouldn't work out like he wanted it to, it still would have stung to have fallen short of that, especially when he couldn't fall back on music like he normally would.

Granted, if he'd known J would be getting him music, he might at least have considered it, but S is pretty sure he would ultimately have decided against it. They're in different places with it, and from him, he would worry that it might seem like pressure to play more whether or not J winds up being comfortable with that. Better, he thinks, to give J the space to approach it on his own, if and however much he wants to. "I didn't want... I thought if it was just the camera, or even just the camera and film, then it might feel... like an obligation, maybe. Too much trouble before you even got started."

The last one is the only non-essential one, really, a leather-bound photo album, a little card tucked into it that S wrote at work so J wouldn't see. Although there's nothing in it he hasn't said before, he's self-conscious about it now, though in a way, he has been about all of this. "I think there's just one more."

J used to be a more thoughtful person, he's pretty sure. At least, he was good at being thoughtful toward his mother and taking care of S when they were teenagers. He doesn't always feel like he has that skill anymore, and it awes him a bit now to have that kind of care turned toward him. S is always so considerate toward him, but this is that writ large, a whole Christmas of S taking a chance to try and make him happy.

Brought back to the moment, he flushes, reaching for the remaining gift. "You have presents, too," he points out. He'd feel awkward, he thinks, sitting here without something to hold while S opens the last two, the gloves and the plush doll. They seem very silly gifts next to the array of lovely things S has given him, but he hopes that's just him getting lost in his head. S will like them. He's not sure S will be wowed by them, but they're decent gifts, surely. "Open something."

It's entirely too easy, really, to get caught up in watching J open gifts and forget to open his own. Lack of interest has nothing to do with it; he's curious and pleased, if trying not to let himself get emotional about the sheet music again. Anything from J would be touching, really, simply because he knows it would be heartfelt. When they've never been able to afford much in the way of gifts, he's never expected much, either. This year is, he's certain, the most he's ever gotten for J at once before, and that's mostly due to being able to work full time now that he's no longer in school and the money he gets each month from this place, which goes a long way towards making sure his share of the rent and their bills and groceries are covered each month. It's still not terribly much, but they're better off by far than they were, enough that he's been able to save up to do something particularly nice for their anniversary and for Christmas.

That's sort of a gift in itself, really. How happy J looks is even more of one. Still, having been prompted, he does want to see what's in the last of the presents, reaching for one roughly the same shape and size as the box his scarf was in. "Alright, alright," he laughs, shooting J a grin as he unwraps the paper, then opens the box. Even having noticed the similarity in the boxes, he isn't expecting the gloves inside, the same color as the scarf and, he's pretty sure, nicer than any he would bother to get for himself. "Ah, these look so soft," he says, wriggling a hand into one to check for himself. "And they match. Thank you."

J brightens, pleased to see S try the glove on right away. The colors aren't a complete match to J's eye, but they're so close he's not sure anyone else would notice such a slight difference and enough so that it really doesn't matter at all. What matters more is that S notices the effort he made and seems to like the result. "If I can't keep you warm out there," he says, "you'll have all that at least."

He sets aside the last gift for a moment, leaning over to kiss S's cheek, his weight on one hand as the other comes to rest on S's leg. "And you look good in them." There's a sort of forest-y olive tinge in the green, dark though it is, one that, J thinks, brings out the gold in S's skin and the warmth of his eyes. It's stupidly, wildly romantic, but he can't help thinking of it as a way for S to carry him out into the world with him, to stay wrapped up in the warmth J would provide if he were there too. Except that a scarf and gloves are actually much warmer than him.

Easing back, he reaches for his present again, starting to unwrap it. There's a bit of heft to it, but not as much as the camera, and at this point, he figures, there's little reason to guess what's inside. Instead he pulls the paper away, smiling curiously at the sight of a book — an album, actually, as he opens it, with room for photos, presumably the ones he'll take, most of which will probably be of S, if he's honest. "Ah, it's pretty, thank you."

Smiling as J leans in to kiss his cheek, S nods in response to the first part once he's pulled back. "I'll be much warmer walking to work now," he says, his ungloved hand running over one of the ends of the scarf again. He has a scarf and gloves, but they're ones he bought in his first couple of days here, when he was newly arrived and not yet employed and drifting, aimless, untethered. Between the months that have passed and the state he was in at the time, he barely remembers now what was going through his head when he got them, but he's pretty sure he just picked up the first, cheapest ones he saw, the weather too cold to go without them when he'd been catapulted from summer back into March, but with spring looming close.

Now, the coldest months of winter are still ahead of them, and it will be nice to bundle up more effectively — and, yes, to do so in a scarf and gloves that J picked out and bought for him. Reaching out with the hand that still has a glove on, he taps J's nose with the tip of one finger before he starts removing the glove again. The scarf, he can wear around the apartment more easily, leaving it where it is for the time being.

Once they're both freed, he twists his hands together as he watches J unwrap his last present, unsure now why he's nervous about this one. The biggest gift is long since out of the way already; this is mostly just something extra, and a tiny bit because he can just imagine the photographs that would lay strewn around otherwise, the way sheet music and manuscript paper used to be.

It's the card inside that has him most apprehensive. In his small, neat handwriting, it says, To my Jae-eun-ah — an artist no matter what you do. All my love, S. Simple as it is, almost self-explanatory, he feels oddly self-conscious now, trying to shrug that off with a laugh. "That one's selfish, really," he adds, not bothering to try to disguise the fact that he's entirely teasing. "So the apartment doesn't just wind up covered in pictures."

J's gaze lingers on the writing, fingertips drifting gently over the paper, and he feels absolutely ridiculous for the way it makes his throat a little tight, his eyes a bit too warm. It's a short, simple message, but it contains so much. S seemed a bit surprised earlier that J reacted so strongly to the camera, but this is precisely it, distilled to a sentence. J has spent months struggling to understand who he is if he isn't making or playing music, not sure how to live fully if he's not creative somehow. Whether it was wholly intentional or not, S saw what he needed and bolsters him all at once. It isn't that the medium doesn't matter. Of course it does, and music will always mean more to him than he knows how to express. But getting these gifts makes him feel hopeful. It probably shouldn't be a new idea, that he can still be an artist, still be creative, even if he finds a different form, even if he doesn't pursue it professionally, but it is, something that drifted only half-made in the back of his head, never fully coming to life and certainly never feeling like something meant for him. That acknowledgment, that revelation, is almost as much a gift as any of the rest.

He lets out an exhale of a laugh, shaking his head. "It still will," he says wryly, though his cheeks are flushed and his eyes a little damp as he looks to S again. "But I'll try not to make too much of a mess. This really is beautiful, Hyunie." He needed this, all of this, more desperately than he knew. It would be, he knows, painfully cheesy to say that S is the only present he needs, but in a way, it's true. Christmas without him was hell. Just being here, S has given him more than J could ever ask for.

For just a moment, S wonders again if he's misjudged, gotten this all wrong. Even such a simple statement seemed like it could be veering close to too many uncomfortable truths, and yet he couldn't not say it, wanting to find some way of letting J know what was going through his head when he chose to do this. He's never known anyone else as inherently artistic as J, something S has seen even in the pictures J's been taking with his phone. Whether or not J will keep playing the piano, or decide he can pursue it more seriously again, S doesn't know, and he doesn't think J does, either. It won't make a difference in that regard, and neither will his taking to photography or not. It's something that runs deeper than that, but that doesn't mean J wants to be told as much. Maybe it will just be a reminder of what he doesn't have anymore.

This time, though, J's reaction becomes clearer more quickly. S still feels a little guilty and a little sheepish, but at least he doesn't seem to have fucked this up. Both hands lifting to J's cheeks now, S leans in to kiss him, sure and sweet. "I figured it would anyway," he says, both teasing and not, his obvious affection colored with amusement. "I'm really glad you like it all, though. Ah, it would have been so much to return if you didn't."

The statement is a joke — a way of trying to keep the mood light, really — but he would have done it. There wouldn't be any sense in keeping all this photography equipment only for it to go untouched, but he would have wanted to make it up to J, too, and get presents he would enjoy more. This seems like the best possible outcome, though, a way of doing something nice for J, more than worthwhile even if it does result in a messier apartment.

J lets out a spluttering laugh, carefully setting the photo album aside so he can slip closer, arms wrapping around S's waist. He leans in and kisses him again, resting their foreheads together, though he's deeply tempted to bury his face against S's shoulder and hide, though there's nothing and no one to hide from that can be escaped in that way. It's just a little bit overwhelming, if still in a good way, to feel as if he's just been given something important to his understanding of the world and himself, even if he hasn't yet fully processed it. S could have given him almost anything and J would have been fine, happy just to have this day together. It would have been special, memorable, just for the fact of it happening. This is better still.

"Don't return a thing," he says, hand coming up to rest on S's wrist. "God, I love you so much." He's not sure any of the things he got come even close to the care S has shown him today alone. There's a part of him that has to admit, though, that this is one occasion when maybe it really is enough just that he's here. And his presents weren't bad and he did think about them; he just doubts they have quite the same emotional weight. But given that, less than a year ago, he could only promise to try to stay alive, his being here now is nothing short of a Christmas miracle. Saying so doesn't seem like a particularly good idea, but it's oddly comforting for him, at least. "I'm looking forward to playing with it all."

S is hardly about to object when J shifts closer again, one hand dropping from J's cheek so he can wrap an arm around him in turn. He really didn't expect all of this to land the way it did, but it's comforting, really, to know he can still read J so well, to have gotten something that seems to have touched him so deeply. Just to get something J liked would have been satisfying enough, when all he's really wanted is to make today as nice for J as he can. It's still early yet, but this seems like a good start. For him, it's enough just to be here, feeling content and loved, close to the person he cares about most in the world. He's never needed anything but J anyway, but that's especially true this year, when he remembers too well how alone and miserable he was last Christmas.

It isn't something he wants to dwell on now. They're here, and as far as he's concerned, this is perfect. "I won't," he says with a quiet laugh, then nods towards the unboxed camera. "Couldn't now anyway even if I wanted to." Unable to resist, he kisses J again, softer this time, but lingering a moment longer, thumb gently stroking J's cheek. "Ah, I'm just glad you like it. I love you, too."

That's what all of this is, really. S has gone without money for far too long to use the number of gifts, or the worth of them, as any sort of indication of affection, but he still wanted to find something that would show it in some way. He hopes he managed it, but that won't stop him from repeating it with every chance he gets.

J nods ever so slightly, not wanting to do anything to dislodge S's hold on him. It rolls over him all at once sometimes — a lot of things do, really. The waves of distress and panic are the same way sometimes, where he doesn't know it's going to happen until it's happening. Right now, though, it keeps crashing over him that he's happy. That things are right — not merely okay, which would itself be yet another miracle, but wonderful. He's safe and he's loved, he's warm, he has a good home, he hasn't hurt anyone in a long time, even including himself. Compared to last Christmas, it's a bewildering change, and there are times he hardly even knows to process that it's real, never mind that it's his.

"Could tell them it was broken in the box," he teases. "But don't." Stealing another kiss, he (yet again) just barely resists the urge to climb into S's lap and cuddle closer. But there's still the cake and one more gift besides that, and they should probably make breakfast before they get too caught up in each other to eat. Admittedly, he's probably only considering that because he can smell what he baked, but it's still probably worthwhile. Besides, he knows that, once he starts tinkering with the camera, he'll probably be absorbed in it for a while as he figures it out. "This is... ah, it's perfect, isn't it?" He's almost afraid to say it, as if that will undo some spell, but he's too happy to keep it in. He wants S to know that.

S can't help laughing again at J's response, his head ducking for a moment. He could do that, but given how J has reacted, there's absolutely no reason for him to do so. It's better than he expected, really, and like a gift in itself to be able to do something like this for J. Before, he doesn't know if a camera would ever have occurred to him as a gift — and they were more expensive, too, he thinks — but he would have gone all out like this on Christmas every year if he could. J never would have expected more than he was able to get, he knows, but it was still one of those things he used to think about, being able to do more one day, having a bigger space, more stability. They still don't have terribly much, but it makes a big difference, being able to work full-time and getting money from the city each month, letting him set some aside to do nice things for his boyfriend.

One day, maybe he'll be able to manage more even than this. Right now, though, he doesn't want to be anywhere other than he is, nodding in easy, fond agreement. "It is," he agrees, one corner of his mouth lifting a little higher after just a moment. "I was just thinking that, too." Somewhere, deep down, part of him is amazed to hear J say so — not surprised, exactly, with the few months they've had, but for a long time, he stopped expecting to be enough for J, stopped being able to make him happy at all. Just being here together now, having J look at him like that, is all he could ever need. Anything else is just extra. "I think it might even be our best Christmas yet."

It has its downsides, of course. Every Christmas does. But in spite of them, J thinks S might be right. It's certainly the most comfortable they've been financially. No one has just died, they're not fighting, he's not pushing S away, and they were both able just to enjoy each other's company and splurge a little. It doesn't have the same giddy thrill as their first Christmas, but it makes up for that by being cozy and miraculous all at once. It's the most peaceful he's felt at Christmas since their first in the studio, and he rarely felt that before then. But this, this is just magical.

"I think so," he agrees, soft as a confession, stealing another kiss. "We've had some good ones, but this..." Because this is special, too, looking at S, seeing the soft pleasure in his expression from what J said before. He doesn't tire of it, still surprised he's capable of making anyone happy at all. "Ah, it's just special. I'm just happy." It's early in the day, and he's already been fairly emotional, so he doesn't know if he expects that to last all day. But he still knows to count himself lucky if he has even a good start to his day, and this is an exceptional one.

He could spend the rest of his life trying, and still S doesn't think he could ever find a way to put into words how much it means to hear that, and to play any part at all in J's happiness. Even if he didn't, it wouldn't matter as long as J still felt it, regardless of the cause. This, though, is deeply, inexpressibly touching, enough so that, for a moment, S feels something in his chest tighten like he might start to cry. He avoids giving into it, at least — relieving, when he has no idea how he would begin to explain what's going through his head, either — but the weight of it is there, bittersweet and wonderful.

When they were together before, S didn't take it for granted, or at least he's pretty sure he didn't. He always knew he was lucky, always felt awed by that. Still, that was nothing compared to this. He's said before — he's tried to make clear, anyway — that he doesn't need or expect J to be happy, but it means a lot to him when he is. That's even truer on a day like this. It really is special, their first Christmas back together, both of them able to do something nice for each other.

"As good as our first, at least," he says with a shrug, though there's nothing dismissive about the gesture. It's just fond and relaxed, his expression equally so as he watches J. That first Christmas was wonderful but strange, the excitement of being newly a couple tempered by the fact that it was his first without his parents. Whatever weight might be attached to this one, too, at least they're together. "I'm happy, too. So happy."

It's to further fend off any further threat of emotion that he, a moment later, tears his gaze away, looking for the wrapped present he saw earlier. "There was one more, wasn't there?"

It's a relief and an embarrassment all at once when S asks that. J is worried that, given a few moments more, he might have burst into tears, pushed over the edge by a gratitude that's utterly overwhelming.

He didn't know. He spent so long so miserable, and he doesn't think there was very much he could have done to change that. There were things he should have done that he didn't know how to do, that he's since learned, but he doesn't know if he could have done so if it weren't for all that's happened. Being able to talk to S again, to be open with him, to feel loved and supported, that's changed more than he can put into words, but he didn't know how to do that before. And it wasn't S's fault and he's not even entirely certain it's his own, not completely. He just didn't know how to fight it. He still doesn't in a lot of ways. This part, the communication, he only figured out through desperation and that same sense of crushing relief at being welcomed back with open arms exactly as he is. He's not sure what could have gotten him to that point without everything crashing down like it did. And it's horrible, he'll always feel horrible, for everything that happened and all he did, but he doesn't know if there was any way through but out. He didn't know he could be happy. He didn't know he could bring anything good into the world. But somehow, somehow, he's here and he's loved and he's made S happy, and he's so grateful that his throat hurts.

He swallows hard against, nose wrinkling up as he lets out a choked laugh. "Ah, why?" he asks. "It's silly." Still, he points toward where it sits, still tucked under the tree, a little bundle of lumpy paper concealing a small plush cat, black and white with little shiny green eyes. He feels a bit absurd about this one, given how thoughtful S was and how lovely all the presents he received were. It's just a ridiculous toy. But it's there and he bothered to wrap it, so he's not going to hide it now. "But yes. One more."

S wants to protest, to say that he's sure he won't find it silly. He would mean it, too. Anything from J is, simply for the fact of that, going to mean a lot to him, and he has no doubt that whatever it is will be heartfelt. Rather than debating the silliness of a gift not yet known to him, though, he sets about opening it instead, looking a bit amused at the package's shape as he begins to take the wrapping paper off it. The pieces of clothing were boxed, so it doesn't seem likely to be more outerwear, though it feels soft and light like it. Other than that, he is, until he sees it, at a loss, not really having had any idea what to expect from J this year anyway, after assuming that music would remain off-limits.

He still doesn't know how to explain how touched he is that that's not the case after all, but it also doesn't seem important in the slightest right now, that train of thought temporarily forgotten when he sees the little plush cat. Immediately, he beams, delighted, lifting up the stuffed animal to get a better look. In retrospect, maybe he should have anticipated something like this, having given a couple to J this year, that day on the boardwalk and for his birthday. He didn't, though, and if anything is silly, he thinks it's how pleased he is. The last time he received a gift like this must have been when he was very young. On their own, the two of them couldn't exactly afford much in the way of frivolous presents, and this is definitely that. He's all the more charmed as a result.

"Ah, he's so cute," he says, bright, before he looks up at J again. "It's not silly. I love him, thank you."

Though J knows deep down that S won't judge him coldly — that, if he were to laugh, it would be fond and teasing and warm — there's always that small part of him waiting to be mocked or to discover he's a disappointment, just barely present enough for him to be palpably relieved at S's expression when he pulls the cat free of its wrapping.

He thinks he might actually flush a little, pleased and sliding closer again, looping his arms around one of S's. "I thought," he explains, "that Franz could use a friend more his size." He also thought that, given how happy he's been to receive such things, S might like it too. Little toys like this have been scarce in his life, and it's an odd point of pride and comfort to have some now. As absurd as it sounds to his own ears, it's wonderful to be secure enough not to feel a complete fool for buying a plush toy instead of something more practical. That day on the boardwalk is a fond memory for him for a number of reasons, and Franz is a constant reminder of it, of the simple loveliness of being frivolous for an afternoon and feeling so cherished. "But he'll need a name."

It's been a long time since he got to feel young. S knows the same is true for both of them, if, as with so much else, in slightly different ways. The fact of that makes him no less painfully aware of it, though. His childhood was cut short when his parents died, with all he had to do to stay afloat after. He was lucky to have had the upbringing he did before that, but even so, he lost that part of himself along with them. Granted, he wasn't exactly doing much playing with stuffed animals at that point, but holding the little cat now, and with J clasping his arm like this, he still sort of feels like a kid, in the best way possible.

"He will," S agrees, still grinning, as he turns from J back to the cat again, one finger of his free hand tapping its tiny sewn nose. "Let's see, are you a Frederic, maybe? Or more of a Claude?" Teasingly serious, he furrows his brow, lifting the cat up for J to see. If he's meant to be a friend for Franz, then clearly, he thinks, they need to stick with the same naming convention, and Chopin and Debussy seem like safe choices — two of his favorites, without any particular baggage between him and J. "What do you think?"

J can't help it, his smile brighter and warmer, his heart full, as he watches S tap the toy on its nose. He's so lovely, so naturally adorable, and J is, as he often is, utterly taken with him. Whatever doubt he had a few moments ago fades away, replaced by the pleasure of seeing S enjoy his choice, watching him play along.

He tips his head to the side, considering these options, both of which he finds equally cute, and taps his own nose in turn, playing up his thoughtfulness. "Franz and Frederic," he tries out. "Franz and Claude... Ah, I think Frederic. The names go well together, don't you think? Ah, Franz will be happy to have a friend." He leans his head against S's shoulder, quietly content. It's not a Christmas he would have ever imagined for them when they were young. So many terrible things happened he could never have conjured up, and so many wonderful things have happened he wouldn't have dared dream of having. Stretching up just a bit, he kisses S's jaw and settles back again.

Objectively speaking, it's probably silly to be discussing a name for a stuffed animal with this degree of seriousness. It's nice to be silly, though, and if they decide it matters to them, then there's no reason why it shouldn't. That day on the boardwalk, when he first won Franz for J, was much the same. A bundle of fabric and stuffing can't have an opinion on a name, or make a friend, or be frightened on a ride, but it does no harm to pretend it can. Just as J seemed so fond of the little bear, so is S about the cat he just unwrapped, pleased to have gotten a gift that's all sentiment and no practicality, and one that's so cute, too.

"Frederic, then," he agrees with a decisive nod, smiling over at J before he looks back to the cat again for a moment. "I like it. And I think he'll like Franz, too." Leaning his head gently against J's, he sets Frederic in his lap, his free hand still resting over the soft material. "Really, this is so sweet. I love him." He smiles, still so utterly fond. "I love you. Merry Christmas."

When he was very young, J wanted to do such things for S. As a child, he wished he could give S some toy to play with that he'd like, but J could never afford that. When they were older, when he had some money of his own from the jobs he worked, when he could give S gifts, he had to be more practical about it. It feels good to have bought something frivolous and not feel panicked about whether he should have really done it. It's good to get frivolous things, for that matter. While he always takes creation seriously to some extent and while the camera means an awful lot, it's not as if it's particularly practical. J loves it for that, too. He doesn't have to do something useful with it. And by making S smile like this, little Frederic has already served his purpose.

Smiling, he leans close, nose brushing S's cheek, lips following. "Merry Christmas," he murmurs. "I'm so glad you like him. All of it. I love you so much." He would have done more if he could, but he knows S knows that. It's never been about the quantity or the price. They couldn't afford that. What counts is this, making each other happy. That's what a good gift really is, a way of saying I was thinking about how to make you happy, and this year, J feels like he's succeeded again. It warms him through, his arms hugging one of S's to him. "This really is the nicest Christmas I've had... maybe ever."

Just hearing that, S feels warm all over, a sensation only heightened by the way J clings to his arm. Maybe it's excessive when they're just sitting here on the floor, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and the presents they got each other, but he's never going to complain about this sort of closeness. It's that, after all, more than any material goods that makes this holiday so special. Last Christmas, he was alone and miserable. The lack of presents, he couldn't have cared less about. It was the lack of company that hurt, an even hollower, emptier ache than that first year after he lost his parents. At least back then, he had J.

He does now, and he doesn't intend to take that for granted for a second. It is, perhaps, for the same reason that he's so touched hearing that, his cheeks the slightest bit pink. "Really?" he asks, hopeful and pleased and a little shy. "It has to be up there for me. With the first one we spent as a couple." He'll always have a special place in his heart for the Christmases he spent with his parents when he was young, of course. It isn't a comparison he could make; this one isn't better than those, but those weren't better than this one, either. They're just good in different ways, a part of his past that he cherishes and a future he's so fucking lucky to have.

He's beautiful, J thinks, so breathtakingly beautiful in his earnest happiness and hope. J nods as an answer, touched in turn. It makes sense, he knows, that this year would be a particularly special one for them both. Even so, it moves him, heart warm and full as he leans closer, lifting a hand to cup S's cheek and pull him gently into a kiss.

That year was a hard one. There were times J felt horribly guilty for being so happy, knowing that his happiness rested on S having lost the most important people in his life. But it was a good one, too, and that Christmas was so special. So close on the heels of their getting together, it felt like a fresh start, the beginning of their own tiny family. This year, too, is a new beginning, a chance to get things right that he fucked up so thoroughly before. Like this, though, his other arm slipping around S's waist, he feels like he's getting things right.

"Really," he murmurs against S's mouth. "This is wonderful. You're wonderful."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown

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