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."
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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."