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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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."

"I'm not worried about what you got me," J says, gently wry. As much as he likes presents in theory, they're a more complicated matter for him in practice, and anyway, they matter much less than being here with S now. Besides, he's excited to try the camera. He remembers how it was the few times he used them in the past, how different film is. But that was when it was incredibly expensive to get a few shots and have them developed. He doubts it's precisely cheap now, but it's got to be much, much more affordable, the old pressure to get a good shot eased by access to film. And, too, being able to develop it himself — well, that will take practice, and he'll need to make himself get used to the idea he might ruin a few photos in the process, and that's probably a good thing.

He's more concerned by far about what he got S. The rest of it really isn't very exciting, by his estimation — small, simple things, things that will hopefully make S smile. He even took a chance on some accessories, mostly things to keep S warm when he goes out, but for those he made himself focus more on finding a scarf and gloves that will be cozy and warm, the nicest quality he could afford so they'll last, trying to pick styles S would pick for himself. This was the only one that felt like a real risk, and that brings up all kinds of emotions, but he's glad he tried. Even if S sounds... bruised, really, J still believes him. Perfect, after all, isn't exactly uncomplicated.

Drawing S closer, he pulls him in for another kiss, slower this time, though still sweet. "I love the camera," he adds softly. "Ah, I can't wait to try it out, really." He lets out a tiny sigh, thumb stroking S's cheek again. "Okay, darling?" He isn't going to push. Some part of him is dying to know what's going through S's head, what he's thinking about, what he wants. But he also knows S won't want to disturb the peace of the day, and he doesn't want to either. If S wants to talk, he's given him room to do so. If he doesn't, well, J can prod him a bit later if he really can't keep himself quiet, but he'll try his best.

Instinctive and determined, S nods in response to the question, though he doesn't pull away at all to do so. He should, probably. Opening the rest of their gifts would probably be the perfect distraction from the tangle of emotions that this has brought to the surface, and though he doesn't want to brush off J's gift, he likewise doesn't want to ruin the mood. It's got to be silly, really, to be so set on making today as good as possible. It's Christmas, yes, their first back together, but it's also just another day, and even the best times in their relationship haven't been without complications and sadness. Life, he's pretty sure, just doesn't work that way.

Still, this is something particularly fraught. How bad things were before, the things he still wishes he could change, how much it aches to feel like something that once was theirs never can be again — this isn't the time for any of that, if there ever will be at all. The way things are has been fine. He has use of a piano when he wants it, even if he wishes that he wanted it more than he does, and J has room to pursue it as much or as little as he wants without comparing the two of them. Every time he thinks about it, he comes to the same conclusion. It's just the best way forward, and the very fact of that hurts too much to dwell on it now, especially when he suspects it would hurt J just as much, if not more.

"I'm okay," he promises, voice soft, but steadier now. Leaning in again, he presses a kiss to J's cheek this time, then gives in and lets his head drop forward to J's shoulder. He does not let himself cry, though it would be far too easy to do so, but he breathes J in for a moment, savors how it feels to have him warm and close, the best possible reminder of why he can't risk trying to recapture that one piece of their past. "I really am. It's just a fair trade, anyway. Now we've both almost made each other cry with Christmas presents."

There's nothing fair about it, really, and J's pretty sure that what the two of them call okay would make other people crumble. They've just dealt with too much to do so now. He wishes that made him feel strong or brave. Instead, it just makes him a little sad.

What does give him strength, though, is this, the gentle weight of S's head on his shoulder. He finally lets his hand drop from S's cheek, arms wrapping around him more fully as he turns his head to kiss S's hair. "I think I really did cry a little," he admits. It was only a couple tears, but that still counts, or it does when he wants to distract S. He's too dramatic by far, they both know that. It's nice to feel okay making fun of himself for that sometimes, when there are plenty of moments when being reminded that he's over-sensitive would only make him more upset, even angry. "But only because it was perfect."

He's not sure how or even if he would have navigated this year without S. Even with him at J's side, there have been so many days J felt overwhelmed by life, and upset with himself for being upset when he has so much now, when he's so lucky. Whether or not S meant for his gift to be something that would make J emotional, he managed to make J feel seen, some unspoken reassurance that it's okay that he's still struggling with that part of himself. Saying any of that, though, feels likely to put them back on the path to tears.

"Do you want to open something else?" he asks, resting his head against S's. "Or do you just want me to hold you a while?" Even as he says it, he suspects he knows what S will choose, and he realizes that he really wants the latter himself. He doesn't want to bask in the bittersweetness so long they get weighed down by it, but he also just likes how this feels — to be warm and safe and loved, to be together in their own home at Christmas under their own tree, wrapped up in each other's arms.

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."

"You can cry on me if you need to," J says, but S has already pulled away a bit, and he's not going to push S to do that when he doesn't want to. If S wants to move on to their next gifts, then that's what they'll do. Knowing them, he tells himself, it's not like the feelings will stay pushed down for long. If S wants to talk about it later, he will.

So for now, he takes the gift S has offered him, still a bit distracted but no less pleased for it. "I can tell," he adds, lightly teasing. "Since I don't remember wrapping it. Go on, you open something too." He doesn't wait, though, for S to do so before he begins turning the present in his hands, looking for a good place to pull the paper off. "Or do you want me to hand you one?" He can't even fully remember which one is which at this point. There aren't a great many gifts, but they mostly fit into similar sized boxes, aside from the sheet music. Still, he knows which ones he got, at least, and sometimes it's fun to pick them out for each other. By this point, he's got the paper off, opening the box to find a few rolls of film, and he grins. "Ah, perfect."

There are few enough that J doesn't have to feel S went overboard, spending on him, but several enough that he should be able to enjoy learning how to use the camera without worrying about running out too quickly. It's lovely, really. He didn't expect the camera at all, but he's already itching to put the film in and try. And also to figure out exactly how to do that, because he doesn't actually know, now that he thinks of it.

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."

J squeezes his hand back, holding onto that moment to soothe his worries. It's all a mess, he knew it was, and it probably always will be, and maybe it was stupid of him to try and make some kind of gesture towards he doesn't even know what now, some sort of peace for a part of their past that won't ever be peaceful, and he can't expect S to sit and try and unravel that now, not just because it's Christmas and he wants Christmas to be pleasant, but also because they simply haven't tried to address it in any real way thus far and that's probably not going to change today. It makes him uneasy, having that unsettled. It didn't before, but he hadn't brought it up, even obliquely, and he has now, even if that wasn't entirely his intention. But S wants to move on, and it's for the best. He says later, maybe, and J doesn't know if that's true, but he at least hears S reaching back, and that's enough to calm a little of his lingering nerves.

It helps, too, to see S reach for a box, ready to open it. It gives J something else to focus on, turning a roll of film over in his hands for no reason but to touch something, to move. "Mm," he echoes, nodding. He can't quite remember which one that is — the scarf, possibly, the softest J could find, long enough S can bundle it around his neck a few times against the cold, a dark but warm forest green J thinks will look pretty with his eyes. Or it might be the gloves, as close in shade to the scarf as he could find, soft and lined, with something special done to the fingertips so he can use the touchscreen on his phone without taking them off, the better for J to besiege him with messages while he's out. It is, he's pretty sure, one of those, because he somehow managed to fit the scarf into the same kind of gift box he bought for the gloves, since they came in a pack of two and he knew he'd just end up wrapping them into a weird paper lump with horrible shreds of tape at odd spots if he didn't box them first. "Ah, if you end up not liking it — whichever one that is, any of them — you can always exchange it for something else, of course."

S is sure it won't come to that, but having offered the same disclaimer himself, it isn't as if he can dispute it. He nods instead, giving J a small smile as he starts to unwrap the package, still careful with the paper, though he doubts they'll reuse it. There isn't anyone else either of them needs to give a Christmas gift to. Maybe that's a little sad, but he doesn't think so, not really. They've both been through so much, and spent so much time apart. Neither of them has ever been especially social anyway, but this past year, it's seemed important just to be with each other, to rebuild. Connecting with other people has mattered even less than ever, and he's never needed anyone but J anyway, had no one at all before he got here.

The thought of it makes him newly tempted just to curl up in J's arms for a while, but S focuses instead on the present he's opening, taking the top off the box — this one does seem like clothes — and touching the fabric inside. "What is it?" he asks, pleased, as he lifts it out of the box, the shape of a scarf quickly becoming apparent, S's smile curling wider as it does. "A scarf? Ah, it's so soft." It's been getting colder lately, and though the walk to work is bearable, it will be nice to have something warm and soft to wrap himself up in for it, which he suspects may have been a consideration. The deep, rich green is beautiful, too. "I love it. Thank you."

When they're not buying music for each other, he thinks they've both always favored more practical gifts. Photography equipment isn't exactly that, but it sort of is, if only in how insensible it would have been to get J a camera and none of the supplies to use with it. There's still photo paper in two different sizes, developing chemicals, and a camera bag for J to open, plus an empty photo album, all things that he hopes will get some use. "Open whichever one you want next. I wasn't kidding about the rest of them being boring, though."

He doesn't mind that terribly much. Already this is more than he thinks he's ever been able to do for J for Christmas before, and the camera was better received than he even hoped it would be.

J relaxes further, pleased by the reception of the scarf. He generally doesn't get clothes for S, since their senses of style are so different, but in the absence of music, he ended up reaching for different things this time around. Besides, with how cold it gets these days, he likes knowing S will be able to bundle up and to think of him while he's out there. More, at least, than he already does.

He inches closer, picking up one end of the scarf and holding it up, his own presents ignored for a moment. Touching it to S's cheek, he smiles. "Ah, there," he says warmly, "I thought so. It looks pretty with your eyes." S has beautiful eyes as it is, of course, but this color complements the rich brown of them while also being something S has little of in his wardrobe already. Now that he's sitting closer again, though, J can't resist leaning closer, drawing S to him for a kiss. Christmas is just for them, after all, and there's no one to bother if they take their time with the gifts and each other.

He would have, he thinks, bought S something like this when they were younger, too, if he'd had the money for something high quality. An ordinary scarf would have been too dull a gift, but he thinks they probably needed things like this even more back then, their studio colder than this cozy apartment with its central heating. It's nice to be able to do such a thing now, though, hence the scarf and the gloves. "I almost got you earmuffs to keep you warmer, too," he teases, "but I didn't think you'd want to wear big fuzzy ones to work, no matter how cute you'd look."

S ducks his head, shy but pleased, when J lifts one end of the scarf to hold up to his face. It's certainly not how he would have thought about it himself, but he can't pretend he doesn't like being complimented by his boyfriend, or that J had the way it would look on him in mind when he picked it out. The practicality of a soft, warm scarf, long enough to be wrapped around his neck a few times, would have made it a nice enough gift, but knowing that J picked it for the look of it, too, makes it that much nicer.

On a whim, when J has let go of the scarf again, S loops it around his neck a couple times now, shooting J a smile as he does. It's warm enough in their apartment, which is, really, a welcome change from past Christmases, but there's no reason not to wear the scarf for a while, silly as it must look paired with the clothes he slept in.

"You're the only person who would think I look cute in them," he points out, teasing, his nose scrunching a little as he does. "Really, though, this is perfect." It reminds him abruptly of when J first got here, the two of them having only one coat and one scarf between them. Fraught as that time was, it's something he thinks back on fondly, too, the two of them starting to piece their relationship back together, coming home to each other at last. "You open something next."

It's a little thing, S putting the scarf on like that, but it makes J light up unconsciously, happy to see he likes it. He's so cute, too, the way he looks almost shy at the compliment, as if J hasn't said much, much more than that about his looks in the past.

"I think anyone who saw you would think you were cute," he counters, scanning the assorted presents for ones he knows he didn't wrap, then reaching for the nearest one. "I could have gotten one with fuzzy animal ears, cat ears maybe, and anyone would think you were adorable." He wouldn't actually do that to S, of course, though if they ever encountered such a pair in a store, he'd put it on S immediately. He just likes teasing. "You'd be a very cute cat." As he speaks, he runs his fingers over the paper until he finds the end of the tape, tearing it away, pulling free a bag of some kind. It's not a briefcase or a backpack or a purse, but it seems like it could be worn as the latter, the strap long enough to go over his neck. He doesn't really go out all that much, so it isn't something he's thought worth getting for himself, especially since he no longer has schoolwork to carry — not that this is quite the right size for that anyway — but it's actually nice and seems really sturdy. "Ah, this is really nice."

"Cat ears?" S repeats, pulling a face, though there's no real displeasure in it. He doesn't have any particular interest in wearing earmuffs that look like cat ears, but he knows that J is just as aware of it as he is, and Christmas or not, he doesn't think either of them is all that prone to giving frivolous gifts. They've never had enough money for that. Darrow has offered more stability in that regard, between his job and the money they both get from the city, but he still doubts they're about to go in a more extravagant direction. Everything he got is meant to be used; he's willing to bet that the same is true for J, too.

With the way J picks up the bag, though, S is pretty sure that he doesn't know what it's for, which is bizarrely endearing. Biting back a wider smile, he nods toward it and explains, "It's for the camera. So you don't have to just carry it around. And there are pockets for film and lenses and that sort of thing." He didn't get any additional lenses for J's camera, at least not this time around. There were so many choices, and he didn't know yet how the camera itself would be received. If J does wind up taking to it, though, it might be a good option to have for future special occasions.

And that's still nice, too, thinking ahead to future Christmases and birthdays and anniversaries, knowing they might just get that. It has him distracted enough that he almost forgets to reach for another present, grinning sheepishly as he finally does so.

J's ready to conjure up some elaborate vision of S in cat ears for his own personal amusement and S's mortification when S saves them both by explaining. His eyes widen a bit and he opens one of the pockets and then the top of the bag itself, increasingly pleased as he understands. "Ah, you thought of everything," he says warmly. It makes much more sense now. He has so little to carry these days, and what he has, he usually just keeps in his pockets. Of course if he takes the camera out, he'll want a way to carry more film and such, and of course he'll want to take it out. Once he gets the hang of it, he knows he won't be satisfied taking pictures of the same rooms over and over. The only subject he'll never tire of is S. "Thank you, darling."

Eyeing the package in S's hands, he does a quick mental check of what he got and what it might be. It's not the gloves, which leaves only the nice faux-leather journal and the small plush cat, appropriately enough, the one truly frivolous purchase he made. It was, though, the cheapest of the gifts he picked out, a whim he really couldn't resist caving to, just a small cat doll with black and white fur and ridiculous plasticky whiskers. He has fewer things to give than to receive under the tree, but he tries not to let himself get bothered by that. It would be easy to make himself feel bad, as if he had somehow failed, but he reminds himself there's a whole cake in the kitchen that says otherwise. Reaching for the camera, he tries to put it carefully into the bag while still watching S.

"I tried to," S says, pleased, if a little sheepish again. He's pretty sure, actually, that he didn't think of everything, not knowledgeable enough for that, but he at least tried to get all the basics, to get everything J might need to start figuring this out. Film and paper and something to carry the camera in, that all just seemed like common sense. He doesn't want to downplay it too much, though, when it seems like he really has actually gotten something right here. It means more than he would know how to say to have done so, something bizarrely comforting about it. Most of the time, at least, he's secure in the belief that he knows J well. Given how things once fell apart, though, there are moments he second-guesses himself, times he can't quite help but doubt.

With this, though, given J's reaction, he thinks he must have done even better than he let himself hope. They're just presents, and God knows they've been content enough without much in the way of those before. On the other hand, though, maybe something for J to do, a creative outlet like he hasn't really had in a while, might be something a little bit more than that. Really, it doesn't matter as long as J is happy with it, which he seems to be. That in itself means as much to S as any gifts he could open himself.

He does want to see the rest, though, curious about what else J might have gotten. For just a moment, he watches J fiddling with the camera bag, smiling as he does, then he starts unwrapping the present he's picked for himself. Despite its flat, rectangular shape, he isn't expecting the notebook he finds under the wrapping paper, nicely bound in what's either leather or something that looks and feels like it. "It's beautiful," he says, hand smoothing over the cover. "Thank you."

Edited 2022-01-15 10:41 (UTC)

J fidgets a little, toying with the strap of the camera bag, though he's pleased S likes the notebook. "Ah, I — it helps me sometimes," he says, "when I write things down." S knows this well. He's kept a diary for years. When he left, it was a habit he needed all the more, because there was no one for him to talk to. If he didn't write things down, they'd just echo off his own skull, cycling endlessly. Putting pen to paper doesn't always do much, but it usually at least allows him to think a little bit more clearly for a brief while, and that can make a big difference.

S is in better shape, of course, than J was then or is now, but it helped J even before he started to feel his grasp on sanity slipping away from him, and S has dealt with so much. When J knows that most of that was because of him, he can imagine there must be things S doesn't want to discuss with him. "I thought maybe you'd want to, too. Or, I don't know, make grocery lists with it." He laughs, a bit sheepish. "Whatever you like."

The gift would be thoughtful enough anyway, especially with how nicely bound the notebook is. Hearing J's explanation for it, though, makes it that much nicer — touching, really, in a way S wouldn't quite know how to put into words. He knows how helpful writing in a journal can be for J, having long since grown familiar with that particular habit of his, even before that last diary, the one he still has carefully tucked away where neither of them will stumble upon it without warning. Somehow, he's never given that much thought to using one himself. He had J, and then he had no one, and there was too much he didn't want to let become real. If he tried to spot J on campus, if he called and hoped that J would pick up the phone, then there was still a chance they could get back together. The weight of all that loneliness didn't quite catch up to him until later.

He isn't lonely now, but if he's really honest with himself, there are still things he struggles with sometimes, things he wouldn't want to tell J. It's not keeping secrets, he thinks, when there's no need to share it. There's no one else he's a fraction as open with, though; if there were, he thinks that would make it feel like secrecy to take those matters elsewhere. Having something to do with them, even just putting them down on paper, might not be a bad idea, and being offered that is unexpectedly sweet.

"I won't waste a nice notebook on grocery lists," he promises, leaning over to press a quick kiss to J's cheek. "I don't know what I'll write, but I'll write something."

That quick kiss is all it takes to make J brighten, the faint cloud of self-consciousness giving way to sunshine. He knows now, as well as he ever could, that if there's anyone in the world, in any world, who won't judge him, it's S. That doesn't make him any less alert as he gives these gifts. It's been a long time since they exchanged Christmas presents, and this is the first year J hasn't been able to fall back on music in some way. Explaining why he picked things is a surprisingly vulnerable process, though perhaps that's more because it's been, all in all, a terribly vulnerable year.

"It's not a waste," he says, "whatever you do with it. But, ah, if it helps — if you need it to — I'm glad." He reaches for another present, feeling really very spoiled already, but enjoying that. There's an awkward squirminess to it, because he's really not used to getting many gifts, but he's getting a little bit more accustomed, bit by bit, to not having to watch their budget quite so closely and, anyway, he sometimes likes the feeling of being fussed over, as long as the context is positive. Even as he starts to unwrap it, he continues speaking. "Sometimes I just write down..." His hands fidget against the half-peeled paper, and he glances up, wrinkling up his nose. "The voice, you know. What it says. If I see it written down, sometimes I can see how stupid it is."

He used to write it all out as fact, blindly following, taken it all as a given. It helps now, gives some clarity, to try and find the lie.

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