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."
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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."