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."