hismelody | where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown

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where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown

For years now, Christmas has felt like a time that's theirs. S had plenty of Christmases before the first one they spent in that tiny, cramped studio, but that was the one that changed everything, the two of them confessing their feelings just two short weeks before, the holiday spent still in the beautiful haze of that. It wasn't all good, of course. His first Christmas without his parents was always going to be a difficult one; he still finds that the holiday season makes him a bit wistful, a bit melancholy. It turned a time he was dreading, though — the worst time in his life, or what seemed like it then — into the happiest, too, and that's not something he could ever lose sight of.

Last year, it made him miserable. On his own, reminded of J at every turn, left to stare at the piano where they shared their first kiss (and many, many more after), Christmas became a dismal time, all the happiness and cheer only emphasizing his own lack of it. For the first time, he was alone, and it was awful. That in itself would make this year significant even if it weren't for everything else that happened in between. Their first Christmas back together is a big deal. But it's also J's first Christmas alive again, and that makes it even more of one. So does knowing how unhappy J must have been last year, too. S can't make up for that, and he certainly can't change it, but he can try to make this Christmas as good as possible, to give them some new, better memories to hold onto.

Of course, he would want to anyway. They were good at that, he thinks, in those first years together, making Christmas special even when they had next to nothing. It's not presents that make Christmas, not by a long shot, but being somewhat better off this year, he wants to make the most of that, too. That's just easier said than done when J's birthday and their anniversary come in such quick succession leading up to Christmas, and even more so given some of the ways things have changed. Although J has now played the piano again, music or anything pertaining to it still doesn't seem like the best gift, and it isn't as if they have a piano here anyway.

He's excited and nervous about what he's settled on instead, but mostly, he's just excited to be together for Christmas again, now in their less cramped apartment, him still without his parents and J now without his mother but the two of them here to see each other through it. Maybe it's because that's what's been predominantly on his mind that S is, when he wakes up, incredibly aware of the fact that he's in bed alone. He doesn't panic the way he might have months ago, but it's still unusual. Typically, J is beside him, curled warm and close. Slightly disappointing as it might be, though, S knows he has to be close, and in fact can just about make out distant noise from across the apartment. Still a little groggy from sleep, he pulls himself out of bed, and first takes advantage of the opportunity to get J's gifts out from where he stashed them so he can bring them out to the tree, wandering into the kitchen a moment later, a sleepy little smile on his face.

"You're up early," he says, coming up behind J and wrapping his arms around his waist as he presses a kiss to his shoulder. "What are you up to?"

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S smiles, gentle, as he shakes his head, taking a small sip from his own cup. He couldn't possibly be disappointed. There could be nothing but store-bought socks under the tree for him and still he would be happy just to be spending Christmas at J's side, neither of them alone anymore. J having baked for him is already more than he would have expected. J just being with him is a hell of a lot more than he had last year, a Christmas that he did nothing to mark as such, save for leaving another carefully vague message on J's answering machine, the holiday spent missing years past and people no longer with him in one way or another. Just what he has so far, a quiet morning curled up together, is infinitely preferable.

Besides, J knows him as well as anyone could. It hardly seems likely that anything he picked out could be disappointing in the slightest. Of course, by the same logic, the gifts he bought for J should be good ones, too, nothing worth worrying about now, but he knows he's taken a chance of sorts here. He just hopes it pays off — that it might be more than a nice present to open, but something good for J, too, the way that practicing in the kitchen has been. He knows that J won't always be happy, even if he doesn't understand his moods all of the time; he knows, too, that there's a particular void he can never fill, though at least J has recently taken a step in that direction himself. Still, offering something new can't hurt, as long as he's actually chosen well here. And he better have, really, given that most of the gifts he has are pieces of the same thing.

"I won't be," he promises, content and confident in that. "I already have you here. Everything else is extra." With a quiet little laugh, he scrunches his nose, taking another sip of coffee. "And the cake is one more edible thing than I was expecting."

Though it's exactly the kind of thing he expects S to say and how he feels in turn, it still feels good to hear, a gentle warmth curling in J's chest at the words, a soft smile following. They've never really been able to give each other much anyway, as far as physical things go. This is very probably their biggest Christmas in that sense. None of it is nearly as important as this, and J just barely restrains the urge to climb into S's lap and kiss him, if only because he doesn't want both of them covered in hot coffee.

"I knew you'd be surprised," he says instead, soft and pleased with himself. If it tastes even okay, he thinks it'll be a success. He's hardly the greatest cook in the world, but he's improved substantially here, he's sure of that. Shifting his coffee to just one hand, he reaches out with the other, resting it atop S's leg. "Hopefully they're nice extras, and if not, oh, well." It's not quite that simple, of course, given J's rather intense perfectionist streak, but he's also had to temper that part of himself when it comes to anything that involves spending money, and that's been true all his life. He's not always good at it, not above the occasional terrible impulse buy, but gift-giving is, at least, one area where he's a tiny bit better at simply hoping he's achieved good enough.

He glances over at their tree again. "I already feel spoiled," he says, somehow both wry and entirely in earnest.

Smiling at the tender press of J's hand to his leg, S simply breathes in deep for a moment, taking in everything — the lights on the tree, the mingled scents of pine needles and coffee in the air, the soft look on his boyfriend's face. Between the fact that he hasn't been awake for very long and the quiet peace of a morning like this, everything feels just a little bit hazy and dreamlike, a little bit surreal, at once both comfortably steady and unspeakably delicate. It makes him gentle when he leans in, not for a kiss but to nose against J's neck for a moment, too much affection in him to be suppressed. There's no need to bother at a time like this anyway. This is all theirs. Already he has everything he needs — far more than he could have expected — with J beside him.

"So do I," he agrees, pressing a kiss to J's shoulder as he eases back. It's perfect, really, as much so as any of the Christmases he might have imagined when he was young, before he knew what life would have in store for him. He doesn't need presents for that to be the case. He has no doubt, though, that they will be nice extras, if only because it's J who picked them out.

Curious as he is, though, he's far more eager to do the giving than the receiving. "Do you want to open something?" he asks. "You made me the cake, so I think you should go first."

J sips his coffee, already having it in mind to set it down after this, though his intent was to get a kiss, not a present. There's no reason, though, that he can't have both. "You haven't even had any yet," he says, grinning, as he leans away to put his cup down. Sitting back up, he leans toward S, lifting his hand to cup S's cheek, drawing him gently closer for a kiss. It's not a no, of course. He just doesn't think S walking in on the last couple minutes of preparation counts the same as opening a present. Though, admittedly, J didn't have a wrapping plan for the cake anyway.

He lingers, the kiss slow and sweet, thumb sweeping over S's cheekbone. When he's done, he barely moves at all, eyes shut, just breathing in the moment. "Okay," he murmurs, then smiles, wrinkling up his nose. "I love you." They've said good morning and merry Christmas, but that needs to be said, too. It almost seems greedy to get gifts on top of being able to hold S and to kiss him, but he knows how much S likes when J likes his gifts. He knows, too, the barely suppressed excitement and nerves that were in S's initial question. There's no point in making him wait longer.

With another quick kiss, he draws back. "Come on, under the tree then. Where should I start? I can't pick."

Strange as it may seem, S isn't really all that concerned about how the cake might taste. J, he suspects, will be expecting perfection despite having never made something like this before, but for his part, in this instance, it really is the thought that counts. For J to go out of his way to make him something — getting up so early, trying something new, planning this in secret — means as much to him as any of the wrapped gifts under the tree if not more. For a moment, it makes him wish he had something more personal to give, too, but he's hopeful that what he got will be well-received. If not, there are receipts kept and returns that can be made, but he would rather it not come to that. It's Christmas. Presents may not ever have made much difference to the two of them, but he still doesn't want J to be disappointed.

"I love you," he replies, just as soft, lingering a moment before he pulls himself off the couch and moves over to the tree. It's a good thing, he thinks, that he remembers which present is which; it wouldn't be much of a surprise if J opened film or a camera bag without yet having a camera to use with it. It's a good thing, too, that J hasn't just grabbed one of them himself. If necessary, it probably wouldn't have been too difficult to cut him off and suggest which one to open instead, but still, it's simpler this way. Looking over the wrapped packages for a moment, he picks up the one containing a camera and holds it out to J, pleased and a little shy. "This one first. Merry Christmas."

As J moves closer, sitting beside S and the tree, he can't quite take his eyes off S. He's so soft at a time like this, recently awoken, quietly eager to give J his present, and J really can't get enough. It's exciting for it to be Christmas morning with presents under a tree, when there have been plenty of years a tree was a luxury too many and presents were small and few. Mostly, though, without having opened a thing, he's utterly content.

He would pick up something for S to open, too, but he sees the way S looks now, the shyness folded in with the excitement; S wants to see, so there's no point passing him something yet. "Ah, what is this?" he murmurs, pleased in turn, as he looks at the wrapped gift — a box of some kind. He only glances at it for a moment before he starts to tear the paper away. The size and shape of it aren't likely to tell him anything, after all, especially when he really doesn't know what to expect this year.

If he'd tried to make a guess, though, he wouldn't have thought of this, his eyes going wide as he peels the paper off to reveal the box itself. He would almost think it was a joke, his real present tucked inside this camera box, but he doesn't know where S would have gotten even the box. These things are expensive, or they were back before Darrow and this time. It hadn't even occurred to him to wonder if they're more affordable now. And this one, even before he opens the box, is obviously much nicer than anything he could have gotten in his own time even if he'd had the money, technology they didn't yet have. Carefully prying open the box, he blinks in wonder as he reaches in, the styrofoam squeaking and making him huff out a laugh as he slides it free. "A camera? Ah, really? Omo. I've never used one like this."

He's not even sure how, but there's a surprisingly thick instruction booklet that comes halfway out with the rest of the contents as J starts to peel away the plastic the camera's wrapped in. He's only ever used disposable cameras and his phone. As much as he's found he likes taking pictures now that he has an inexpensive way to do so, he's never thought about trying a real camera, but it's somehow both solid and delicate in his hands and he finds himself excited to try. "Sihyun-ah, this is... ah, isn't this too much? It's so nice."

S watches as J unwraps the present, trying to keep his expression as even as he can, neither too nervous nor too hopeful, though a little of both inevitably creep through anyway. The last thing he wants is for J to feel obligated to like his gifts. Granted, that's never been any kind of a problem before, not least because they've never been able to afford much for each other, but even so, there shouldn't be any pressure in this sort of thing. If J doesn't like it, S will be a little disappointed that he didn't choose well after all, sure, but there's no reason it should have to be an issue or put too much of a damper on their Christmas. He'll just take J out later to pick out something for himself.

His attempts at rationalization and reassurance for himself are cut off by J sliding the styrofoam out of the box and taking the plastic wrapping off the camera, startling a quiet laugh out of S in turn. There definitely won't be any returning it now, which has to be a promising sign, though there's still a nervous flutter in his chest as he shakes his head. He wants to say that of course it isn't too much, that nothing ever could be, but that's too romantic even for him. He wishes it were true, and it certainly would be in theory, but they've both had to live with the practicality of having very little money to live on for too long for it to be all that believable. Financially speaking, plenty of things would be too much. They're better off here than they were, though, and of course he's wanted to take advantage of that, within reason. To give J a nice Christmas, it's worth it.

"Do you like it?" he asks, and now that hopefulness takes hold, too much to be suppressed. "I know it's different, but I wanted... I know how much you like taking pictures with your phone, and I thought it might be good to get... something creative, but new." He doesn't want to say anything more about that now, not today, but there's no bad history here, no baggage attached. J is more of an artist than anyone else he's ever known, but even now that he's played the piano a little again, S couldn't have gone that familiar route in buying a gift. This just made sense, with the added bonus of being something surprising. At least, if absolutely nothing else, it seems like a safe bet that he managed that part. "Most of the others go with it. But if you don't like it, we can get you something else."

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."

At first, watching J's reaction, S can't help the way his stomach twists with concern, with guilt. He prepared himself for the possibility that J wouldn't like his gift; he didn't for a second imagine that J might wind up on the verge of tears over it. His own eyes go wide, mouth curving into a slight frown, even as J says he loves it. Maybe his choice of gift was even more of an error in judgment than he anticipated. Maybe he just misspoke now, cutting too close even in his caution to subjects far too unpleasant for Christmas morning. It wouldn't be the first time, after all, that he upset J when trying to do or say something nice. Really, it shouldn't even matter all that much, just a slight hiccup like so many others they've had, but it's their first Christmas back together, and he didn't want to fuck it up, hates the idea of getting something so wrong on Christmas, his mind already racing, trying to think of ways he might be able to put this right.

What J says next helps a little, easing some of the tension in his chest, but he still can't be certain yet. "Really?" he echoes, hopeful and worried in equal measure, looking at J carefully as if he might somehow be able to discern the reason for his reaction. He seems like he means it, and in all fairness, he thinks they know each other well enough to have a good sense of when the other is telling the truth, but he still wants to be sure. On one hand, it's just a gift, but on the other, it feels far too important just to let it go, and not because of the money he spent on the camera and the other related gifts. "You're sure?"

Impulsively, he leans forward, one hand braced against the floor so he can close the distance between them and kiss J's other cheek. Worried as he might be, he still thinks J is sweetly adorable like this, with his little pout and apparent frustration with his emotional state. Alongside the rest of it — the reason for the rest of it — is deep fondness, one that has him both endeared by the way J looks right now and wanting to give J as good a Christmas as he possibly can, preferably one without any actual crying.

J sniffs, shifting closer the moment S gets nearer, ducking his head to hide his face against S's shoulder. He doesn't want to be emotional about this, not in this way. He doesn't want S to have to worry, not now, not on a day that's so special, so important, when he knows he must cause S enough worry on an ordinary day. He doesn't want, either, for S to think he got this wrong. It must have felt like taking such a chance, picking out something for him that he's never pursued in any seriousness. And that's the thing, really, that it doesn't have to be serious. He can do it differently, maybe even get better at it, but it's not a career, a calling. It's something he can just do, a way to give himself more of a voice without anyone assessing the final outcome, and that — that's as much of a gift as the camera itself. It's hard to put that into words without saying too much, but he also wants S to know just how right he got it.

"I'm sure," he whispers. He reaches out, camera perched in his lap as he wraps his arms around S's waist, lifting his head, pressing a kiss to S's cheek in turn. "I just... when you said that... I didn't — I didn't know how much I wanted that. Creative, but new. It just..." He swallows hard, taking a shaky breath. "It hit hard. But it's good, it really is." Times like this are a vital reminder, too, of how thoroughly his mind lies to him, something he can point to in the future when certainty wavers. How could he doubt this man knows him better than anyone ever has? How could he ever have doubted that?

Leaning in, he kisses S on the lips, soft and sweet. "I didn't know I wanted this, but I love it, darling." He huffs out a soft laugh, wrinkling up his nose before he blinks away at lingering tears in his eyes. "I hope you're prepared to be my model. More than you already are." He'll never get sick of that, capturing S from every angle, in every mood, whether in still image or song.

S didn't know either, really. Even with his own rationale, thinking that it would be good for J to have something artistic, something creative to do, a hobby to help fill some of the time he spends alone, it never occurred to him that it might be so meaningful. Mostly, he just thought it seemed like something J would find fun. As much as he didn't intend to make J so emotional now, though, there's some comfort in that response. At least it seems like a good sort of emotional, tears over something he got more right than he anticipated, not more of a misstep than he prepared himself for the possibility of.

When J shifts closer, S wraps his arms around him in turn, careful not to dislodge the camera but wanting him near all the same. J is so sweet like this that it renders him irresistible — even more than usual — and anyway, it's Christmas morning and they're back together, exactly as they should be. As so many things have these last few months, it reminds him a little of the first year they were a couple, the holiday tempered by his grief for his parents, made slightly bittersweet, but euphoric, too, for being all of two weeks into a new relationship. They've had the better part of a year back together now, but there are still so many firsts, especially around this time. Their first anniversary back together, their first Christmas back together, these things are especially significant, ones he wants to do as much for as he can. He went all out with the camera and accessories for it with that in mind, but even so, he didn't see this coming at all.

"It might drive me crazy within a week, but I'll live," he says, gently teasing, stealing another soft kiss before he continues. "Ah, I'm so glad you like it." That's an understatement, really, but he thinks it shows, his relief and quiet pride at having done well here. "Not to give away too many of your presents, but a lot of them are things to go with it." He said that before, he thinks, but now that he's sure of how J feels about it, it makes more sense to give some details. "The one thing I didn't do — I was thinking we could turn that one closet into a darkroom for you? But then the woman at the store said they sell portable ones, too, like a little tent you can set up, so I thought I'd wait and let you figure out how you want to do that."

It feels absurd to be so emotional over a single present, but J can't help it. In a strange way, it makes him feel more hopeful about music, too. One thing he worries about in between the very few chances he's had to play since he first tried is how important each time feels. Even if it's not as heavy a thing as it was before, there's still such weight to it, as if the ability to play or not play and the impact that has on him still has the power to define him. Maybe having something like this he can do, something that's new and different but still creative, will help take a bit of the pressure off that.

And even if it doesn't, it'll be fun to figure out how this works and to annoy S with it. He's put so much thought into it, though, getting the different pieces, thinking ahead to developing the film, and J wishes he knew how to set it up right now, so he could capture S in this moment. He nods, smile bright, if a little shy. "Okay," he says. "I... ah, I guess I'll get to know this friend a bit and then figure out which would be better. This really is so nice. I..."

He doesn't want to bring the mood down, talking about things that are more difficult. He's been working, though, on this, pushing himself this year to be open, transparent in a way he wasn't for years, and which he can only manage with S anyway. Besides, it's not like it's bad contextually or even surprising. It's just a more serious subject. "It's hard sometimes," he says, gaze slightly lowered. "It has been since before here. I didn't know how to make things anymore." He didn't know, for that matter, how to let things matter a little bit less, tripping over himself because everything felt so fucking important all the time. But with the pictures he's been taking, it's different. He takes them because small moments feel important, too, and little meaningless things still have beauty. And also because he likes being able to hold onto instants with S that would have faded in memory otherwise. "I... I missed... that part of me." He doesn't really know who he is without it. He hadn't for a long, long time, well before they broke up. But maybe it's still there in the way he stops to get the angle right before he takes a picture of someone's bike against a brightly colored wall just because it's pretty. "This seems like a nice way to... see it again."

He shakes his head, making himself lift his gaze again so he can see S. "I love you."

It's not as if S didn't know that already. He saw how frustrated J was in the months before he moved out; he read about how bad it was after, when he was so desperate for any kind of inspiration that he took the most horrific route possible to find it. Still, hearing him say it outright is touching, bittersweet, in context like this. S had no idea it would mean this much. He vaguely thought that having an outlet of that sort, in the absence of a piano, might be good for J, but he didn't go nearly that far with it, the pieces there but not quite put together. Now, though a part of him still feels guilty for having made their Christmas morning so emotional right off the bat, it feels good, too, comforting to have taken a chance and had it go this well. Had J not looked like he was on the verge of tears a moment ago, it would be tempting to say that he told him so — that he knows him, that he always did, well enough to have figured this out without even consciously making total sense of it. The moment isn't right for that sort of teasing, though, too gentle for that, too tender.

Instead, he lets go of J only to rest both hands at his jaw instead, holding his gaze for a moment and then drawing him into another kiss. "I love you so much," he murmurs. "I know it's been hard. And I know you missed it." That much, at least, he did have in mind. He's never once equated J's worth with his ability to play or write music, but even from his perspective, it's been strange, going so long without J playing at all, the fact that he's done so little of it now. Maybe it's a hypocritical thought when he barely plays, too — or maybe he's just ignoring what he's lost in that regard — but he still thought it would be nice for J to have something else creative to do. "I hope this... helps with that, a little. And I hope you have fun with it."

Although he has the sense not to say so, he wonders if it might be that much better under the circumstances for it to be something relatively new. J is bound to be a perfectionist about it anyway, but there won't be old standards of his own to try to live up to like there were with the piano after a while. For that matter, it isn't something he'll be doing, either; it can be all J's.

Smiling slightly, he exhales a laugh. "Even if I complain about it the whole time, I'll let you take as many pictures of me as you want."

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.

Huffing out a soft laugh of his own, S shakes his head, leaning in to kiss J's forehead this time. It's true enough that he wouldn't have started with this if he'd had any idea of how it would be received, but that's not at all for his own sake. He's never needed presents to be happy on Christmas, always just grateful for whatever made J think of him. Though money is less of a concern here than it was for them back in Seoul, that might be even truer now than it used to be. He was alone last Christmas, after all; there were no presents at all, nothing to set the day apart from any other. Not wanting to bring the mood down too much, he has the good sense not to mention that, but just being with J makes today special. He thought he would never have this again. It's enough, more than, to be here together, sitting by the tree, holding each other — a perfect Christmas, really, as far as he's concerned, even more so for having done better than he hoped in picking out J's gift.

"They won't be," he says, so incredibly fond. "They're from you, and it's Christmas, and we're together. It'll be wonderful." He can already practically hear J teasing him for being such a romantic, but he can't help it. It's better than the alternative of making a big deal of gifts not being significant enough, anyway, the very idea of which is difficult for him to fathom. Hands lowering again, he taps J on the tip of his nose before drawing them back, though he doesn't otherwise move from his spot on the floor close by J. "Besides, I don't think it's fair to say other than the cake. I still can't believe you did that."

In a strange way, though it isn't as if he thought otherwise before now, it makes him feel like they'll be okay. He remembers with painful clarity how fraught J's first days here were, how there was no guarantee that this would last. There still isn't, really, but it seems infinitely more likely now, and that's a gift in itself.

J's ready to tease S, too touched by what he says just to let it go or to acknowledge head-on how nice a thought it is when he's already so moved. He wrinkles up his nose after S touches it, though, and then S keeps talking, and J has to duck his head again, almost shy. "Ah, I know," he says, tone teasing anyway. "I never get up so early." It's true, and he'll probably end up napping later whether he means to or not, but it was worth it to see how pleased S is with the gesture.

He wanted that. It's hard here to know what exactly to get for S. It was, he supposes, the same problem that S must have had with him, finding something that wasn't sheet music but was still personal. He's always tried to give gifts that strike a balance, too, between being useful and being special, though he's never had the money to be as extravagant as his heart desires. At least baking is something where S knows he put in a real effort to do something special. Still, he hopes that the other things he got will be good anyway.

Admittedly, he did still end up buying sheet music. He's a touch nervous about that one. But S has been so patient and encouraging with him, letting him decide if and when and to what degree he wants to play again. It's a slow and uncertain process, one he's trying to approach thoughtfully, but it's impossible for him to miss, as he does so, that S isn't playing. He must sometimes at work, J is sure of that. And it probably won't ever be the way it was, the two of them playing as they once did, but they can still have music. If nothing else, Schubert's waltzes hold a special place in J's heart, and finding the sheet music for the one he played that day at Kagura felt right. It could ruin the mood, he thinks, if he got this wrong, but that's all the more reason for him to do this now, reaching for the thin box before he can think better of it. "You should open something too, you know."

Although S likes presents as much as the next person, he's been far more focused on the giving of them than the receiving this year. In a way, having gotten J something that's turned out to be so meaningful is like a gift in itself, the most he hoped for and better still. They've never been able to get each other much, anyway. Even while assuring J that he won't be disappointed with any of his gifts, he hasn't been thinking that much about them. J holding the wrapped box out is, amusingly enough, a reminder that he has presents to open now, prompting a small, pleased smile from him as he reaches out in turn to take it. Now that his attention has been turned in that direction, it's impossible not to be curious, a little eager, having no idea what J might have gotten him.

"Ah, what is it?" he asks, though the question is clearly rhetorical. The package is small and thin and light, and he gives it a little shake — quiet, too — before carefully beginning to peel the tape away from the paper, one more or less smooth sheet falling away, leaving him with just the box to take the lid off.

He expected clothes, a shirt or maybe a vest or some other sort of accessory, which in retrospect is silly when they've always had different taste in fashion, enough that they wouldn't normally pick things out for each other. Really, he would have been less surprised by anything other than what he sees, crisp new sheet music staring up at him, making his breath catch and his heart lodge in his throat. They don't even have a piano, part of him wants to protest. He doesn't even play anymore, not really, only a very little at work, something he's largely avoided talking about but that he thinks he's made clear even so.

The words don't come out. "You got me music?" he asks instead, realizing only when he hears the waver in his voice that his eyes have gotten hot, his turn, apparently, to be brought to the verge of tears by a Christmas present. He can't help it. J resented him and his playing so much for so long, or at least it came to feel that way. The last Christmas they spent together, they were already falling apart, cracks in their relationship lengthening, deepening. It's hard to imagine J doing anything back then to encourage him to play; it's hard now to read this in any other way, harder still to know what to do with that. While he would never say so outright, he can at least admit to himself that he gave it up mostly for J's sake. Not entirely, because he already wasn't playing much so it didn't feel like that much of a loss, but before this place, he expected that he would get back to it eventually, if only to carry on for the both of them when one of them couldn't anymore. Here, it's just seemed better, smarter, to let it be J's, to leave space for that even when J wasn't playing at all, not to risk doing anything that would stoke that jealous fire again.

Now, instead, there's this, the piece one he recognizes as the one J played when they took that first day trip to Kagura, and even if he doesn't know what to do with it, he does know that it means more than he could say. It makes him sad, in a way, a reminder of what he lost, but it makes him far more grateful. "Thank you," he whispers, looking up from the cover page, where his fingers delicately trace the title, to J. "I love it. I do."

Even if he never uses it, even if he never touches a piano again, just the meaning behind it is enough of a gift in itself. He doesn't know how to say that, though, so he'll just have to hope that J understands.

J lets out the breath he's been holding, nodding slightly. He knew he was nervous to give this, but it felt too right not to. He just hadn't quite realized how nervous until S was holding it, opening it. "You don't have to play it if you don't want to," he says, careful, not wanting to trip over his words when it feels important. "I... I don't think you play much anymore. But if you wanted to... I like that one." S knows that. It came to J first that day, not because it mattered most — he would have played their song first had it not still felt fraught — but because it's one he still thinks of fondly. He never played it for a competition, he didn't write it clearly, it was never homework. There's nothing unpleasant attached to it, except for how it reminds him of missing his mother, but that's always going to be something bittersweet. Between playing it at Kagura and S's reaction now, he has tentative hopes to bring out more of the sweet.

The fact that he's not even sure how often S plays anymore, that he's only guessing based on the briefest of references and a lot of omission — he knows that's on him. He doubts S would want him to call it his own fault, but it is. Still, S has been so patient with him as he figures out how he wants to approach music again, but he loved music too. If he doesn't really anymore, that would be on J too. He can't say he never wanted that. There were, he's sure of it, jealous moments in his past when he wished S would stop, when it hurt to hear him play, light and effortless, while J struggled so desperately. And he can't just dismiss all that as something that wasn't real, a product of his being out of his mind, because even if he was half-mad at the time, even if he's still a bit so now, the hurt he caused was too real by far.

"And," he says, still cautious, trying not to sound more casual than he feels, "if you don't play for me, I'll understand. Do what you want with it." He misses it in a way he wouldn't have thought possible for a long time. But if he were S, he wouldn't want to play for him either. Still, even if that's the case, maybe S will enjoy playing it at work. At least he'll know J feels the same way S has expressed towards him so many times now, that great wealth of patience and compassion S shows him every time the subject comes up, supporting him whatever he chooses. He should have been able to show S the same love a long time ago, but that doesn't mean he can't start now.

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."

It's a hard subject for both of them, J knows that. The fact that S works around music all the time... J just assumed he still played now and then, if not very often. When he says it like that, though, J can't be sure anymore, and he wants to ask, he wants to know everything, and he's not sure that's fair and he's not sure he should. S waited until he was ready to talk, even if it was in the dead of night and they were half-asleep and upset. He waited, and he encouraged J to do this exactly how he wants, not to play because he feels he has to or to stop for the same reason, just to do it if he feels he can. He's been perfect every step of the way, never making J feel anything less than supported. It's a trust that J broke a long time ago, and he's been so lost trying to repair his own understanding of what music is for him now that he doesn't think he's ever really made an effort to do the same for S. He just made assumptions and put it aside. And even if some part of him knows it's what he's had to do, that he can't take on everything at the same time or he'll break, he also feels selfish for it. He needs to do what he can to stay steady, he knows that, but there's a lot of fixing he needs to do, a lot of effort he needs to make. He's still trying to be better than he was, and he knows he's succeeded in a lot of ways, but he's still falling short in his own estimation.

He reaches out, hand resting on S's, and nods. "Okay," he says, and then gives up on that, setting the camera to the side so he can inch closer, slipping his arms around S's waist again. "Sorry," he adds quietly. "I didn't mean to upset you." He's not sure it's entirely a bad upset. It stings, yes, knowing S misses music so badly, but if it means that much, then he thinks maybe it's a good present, too, that S saying he loved it was in earnest, and that's got to count for something. Even if S only plays it at work, even if he never hears him play again — and that's something J has thought many times, but he thinks it sinks in now in a way it hasn't before, that maybe he never will — it's still something. They've recovered so much and done so well, but there are some things that might always be broken, and he still doesn't entirely know how to handle that, but even if music's been taken from them as a pair — even if he ruined it for them, really — he doesn't want S to lose it entirely.

He wants to say he misses it, but that doesn't feel fair. He's the one who pushed them apart, who damaged all of this. He doesn't get to say that and risk guilting S into playing around him if he doesn't want to. Instead he reaches up, fingers brushing through S's hair, and leans in to kiss his cheek.

Instinctively, S wants to say that J didn't upset him. It wouldn't quite be true, though. He is upset. Still, in a way, he thinks he might have needed to be. He didn't know until now just how much he's missed it — missed playing like he used to, missed the drive he had, and more than anything else, missed playing with J. Even if he never gets any of it back, maybe it's better to have that awareness, to be honest at least with himself about it, than to bury it entirely. Maybe it's less of a loss if he lets himself feel it. Regardless, he doesn't want today to be about that, and he certainly doesn't want J to have to feel guilty about what really is such a sweet gift.

Sniffling a little, he shakes his head, carefully setting the music aside so he can lean into J without crumpling the paper at all, reaching for him with one newly freed hand. "Please don't apologize," he murmurs, fingers curling gently around J's wrist. "You don't need to be sorry. Really. This is..." It says a lot, really, that J would get him something to encourage him to play. Even if he can't respond in kind, even if it still doesn't seem worth the risk — something that J might support in theory but that would do too much damage in practice — it's deeply touching regardless. The piece itself is, too, really. Not as much as some others with more history between them, but he knows it can't be accidental that this is the first one J played after all those months, after thinking he'd never play again. Even that wasn't what it once would have been, with him sitting beside J solely for support, not to play with him, but he knows what a big deal that was. Whatever he does with the sheet music he's been given, this is, too.

It used to all but go without saying that they would get sheet music for each other, the surprise less the gift itself and more what pieces they would have chosen, and then they inevitably wound up practicing together anyway. Now he wonders if maybe he should have gotten J something along those lines after all instead of steering clear of it. He hadn't wanted to push the subject, but he's wanted to be encouraging, and now might have missed the chance for it today. Still, it's hard to say how that would have gone, if both having gotten music would have been too close to the way things were before. It aches to think so, but he knows they'll never get that time back. In so many ways, what they have now is even better, so he can't regret that at all, but it's still something of a loss in its own right.

S doesn't want Christmas to be about that. There are more than enough ways that the holiday season will always be a little bittersweet now, in the absence of his parents, without dwelling on the rest of what they no longer have.

"It means a lot," he settles on, continuing his own trailed-off sentence, his voice still a little wobbly. "That you would get this for me."

There's an odd sort of relief in that being the case — not just that J's choice didn't turn out terribly, but that it means a lot to S. It means he was right, that he understood the situation without S telling him, and that means a lot to him, too, not to have misread or fucked this up. And it's awful to know he's probably right, too, about why it means a lot, but he's never tried to pretend that the things he did weren't terrible, not since he got here. There might be a wide scale of wrongs, and discouraging S — actively resenting him, turning him away — may not be the worst he did, but maybe it's not too late to undo a little of the damage even so.

He draws in a breath, thumb tracing over S's cheek. "I know things are different," he says softly. "I know I..." He huffs out a rueful laugh. "Wasn't exactly supportive." That's putting it so mildly it might as well be a joke. Still, he doubts S wants to talk about this in depth right now. If he does, J will follow his lead, but he doesn't think it's likely. He already seemed worried that he'd ruined things and gotten J upset, and it's true that his gift made J deeply emotional, but this has the potential to make things worse. He didn't think this through, he realizes now, as fully as he thought. Still, it seems to have worked out. "I regret that."

He hesitates, not sure what more he wants to say, not sure what he should hold back for a better time, or even what he should put into words. Briefly he considers grabbing another gift to give S, but he doesn't want to extract himself from S's hold yet. Leaning in, he kisses his cheek again. "I love you so, so much, darling."

Although it really isn't funny at all, what J says is such an understatement that S can't help the soft laugh he lets out as well, thin and watery. Things were such a mess, increasingly so, that last year. Of course J wasn't supportive. S doesn't want to say anything about it, though, mostly because he fears that if he does, it will seem like some sign of resentment or a grudge being held when that really isn't true. It's the same reason why he doesn't want to say outright that he can't play for J. There isn't a single doubt in his mind that things won't go back to the way they were then, and while he can acknowledge that J, at his worst, could be cruel, it isn't something S holds against him now. Things have changed. They've changed, and it isn't as if only one of them can be blamed for their relationship falling apart.

He just can't see how he would ever be comfortable, how he'd get out of his head, worried that any note could bring some of J's insecurity back or seem like an issued challenge. Any playing he does now will be for himself and because he wants to do it. Even leaving any room for comparison seems like too much. However much he might miss playing more often and how it used to make him feel, he's been fine these last months, and he'll continue to be. That's just the only way forward he can see for now.

"I know," he murmurs, not wanting to let what J has said go without a response. Understatement or not, this is still a serious subject, and not one about which he wants to risk seeming dismissive. Leaning forward just a little, he rests his forehead against J's, thumb idly stroking his wrist where his hand still rests. "I love you, too. And this... Ah, it's such a nice gift."

It's that little laugh that makes J relax again, just a touch, steadying his breathing a bit. It's a good thing, he tells himself. This was the right choice. Whatever S decides to do from here on out, he'll support that, and at least now he's found a way to say it. He doesn't have a right to ask for more than that. If anything, he'll try his best to follow S's lead, to learn from him how to be better, more supportive. Some things about their relationship, their lives, have changed fundamentally. A lot of that isn't easy, and it takes time for him to adjust. He'll just have to remember this is on the list of those things, the need to hold himself back, to refrain from pressuring S or asking to hear him play, the need to accept that those days are gone.

"Good," he says softly, smiling just a little. "I worried about it." It's a tiny confession, really, when he worries about most things. He doesn't want S to think this was just some silly whim, though, or him forgetting how much things have changed. Tipping his head ever so slightly forward, he presses a soft kiss to S's lips. "I'm glad you like it. When I saw that piece, I thought it would be perfect." His other hand dropping to S's waist, he otherwise stays just where he is. When he's feeling emotional — which is, admittedly, much of the time — sometimes he needs space and sometimes he desperately needs closeness. He doesn't want to push S away if he needs a few more moments. "I promise everything else is boring."

That last statement draws another tiny laugh from S, one he follows with a kiss, as gentle and brief as that which preceded it. He still feel dangerously emotional, and he suspects he would, at any other time, just give in and fall apart, more overwhelmed than seems fair in response to a Christmas gift. It's hard, realizing just how much he's missed music and the way he used to feel about it and especially sharing it with J. Until now, it really did seem like enough to be able to play a little at work if and when he felt particularly compelled to do so. If it was, though, it can be again. It has to be. That's one thing he doesn't see how they could ever get back, and he can't be bothered by that when they've already gotten so much more than should even have been possible. He has J, and that's all he needs. All he ever should have needed, too. Maybe if he had just let music be J's instead of trying to share it, everything wouldn't have fallen apart the way it did.

And he knows, he knows it isn't fair to think like that, but the whole subject is such a mess, maybe even more so now, with J so sweetly offering this to him. He could easily be a mess, too, if he let himself. It's Christmas, though, and he really doesn't want to ruin it. J has sounded so careful and so worried. It wouldn't seem right to let him think this was a misstep when it really wasn't at all, just deeply complicated.

"It is perfect," he says, breathing slowly to try to keep himself composed. Emotional though he may be, he means it, too. It hurts, but it's still perfect; the gesture of it will be even if he doesn't wind up playing it after all. Part of him wants just to crawl into J's lap right now, but he stays put instead, still gently holding onto him. "Don't worry, the rest of yours are boring, too, now that you have the camera open."

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