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."