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.