hismelody | (no subject)

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Even now, after more than a year here and the rocky months that preceded his arrival, S still sometimes finds it strange that he barely plays the piano anymore. There is, of course, a whole ton of baggage that comes along with that, too, but every once in a while, he's simply struck by the oddity of it. For such a long time, it was such a huge part of his life, the thing that helped bring him and his boyfriend together, the path he'd chosen for his future, both his schoolwork and his leisure time largely revolving around it. Now he doesn't even play daily, though he works around instruments. At least he has a good environment in which to do so. Playing at home would be out of the question for numerous reasons, not the least of which is that they don't have and can't afford a piano. At work, he can get it out of his system, so to speak, get some practice in so he doesn't lose all his skill. It's not something he has the same drive to pursue anymore. As much as he misses it, he can't force that feeling back. This is enough — a perfect arrangement, really.

He just has to keep telling himself that.

As is fairly usual, it's quiet near the end of the work day, no customers around. With his coworker in the back, the store is momentarily empty, and that feels worth taking advantage of. Sitting down at one of the display pianos — a beautiful grand, far nicer than anything he ever owned or ever really expected to, he remains still for a moment, just breathing in deep, savoring the familiar feeling of it, his hands resting delicately against the keys and eyes closed. When he opens them again, he begins playing Tchaikovsky, the simple, lilting, bittersweet melody coming from him easily. He means to be paying attention to the store still, but with so little time left until they close up anyway, he isn't expecting anyone to show up. He winds up, then, immersed enough in the music that he doesn't notice when the door opens and someone walks into the store.

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Some tiny part of J has wanted to come here for a long time. That's the problem, precisely why he hasn't, not for real. He's stopped in very briefly once or twice to see S, to bring him coffee during his shift or because he was nearby, but he doesn't stay. S has invited him to do so before, under other circumstances, suggested he come in and play when the shop is closed, but that, too, is why he hasn't. Having access to the piano at Kagura meant a chance to slowly accustom himself once more to the possibility of playing safely, but being near music like this, instruments and sheet music all around, it's felt like too much, like if he lingered, he'd give in.

He didn't even consciously mean to end up here today, but he was nearby, taking pictures — mostly with his phone, though his camera is in the bag over his shoulder — and then he figured he might as well. S's shift is nearly over, and J doesn't know what he wants here, if he means to take the opportunity S has offered before or just wants to walk his boyfriend home. But Kagura has been closed for a couple months now, and the itch to play still rises up from time to time. It's small, and it scares him a little and soothes him a little. Mostly it makes him sad. It won't ever be what it was again. In many ways, that's for the best, but it still feels odd.

Just walking into the shop stirs that feeling again, something quietly melancholy, underlining by the sound of a Tchaikovsky piece from elsewhere in the store. It doesn't take him long to find the source, his steps halting instinctively at the sight of S playing.

He doesn't know what to do. The last time he saw S play was over a year ago, the one bright spot in a night that turned terrible very quickly. He's wanted this, wanted to think that S could play again if he wanted that, too, even if J never saw again, even if they never talked about it. But they don't talk about it, so he's not expecting it at all, his throat going tight as he listens, watching the gentle, meticulous way S plays, casually perfect even now.

Standing here until S looks up seems like a very bad idea, but he doesn't know how he should respond. Clearing his throat quietly, he swallows hard. "I like that piece."

In the span of one quick moment, several things happen. First, the sound of a voice, any voice, cutting through the soft sound of the piano startles S, causing him to inhale abruptly. It isn't just any voice, though, and he knows it. That more than anything else is what prompts the rest of his response. He stills as he lifts his head, hands frozen and hovering over the piano keys for a moment before he draws them back, fingers curling in toward his palms. It's stupid. He shouldn't feel caught, like he's been doing something he isn't supposed to. He has, in fact, told J that he plays at work sometimes, and J has been nothing but encouraging even when S has insisted that he doesn't feel about it the way he used to.

That much is still true. Part of why he plays, when he plays, is because he misses the way he used to feel about it. Of course, he still thinks it's better, too, that he doesn't have that drive anymore, meaning that music can't come between them again, but there's still an empty space where it used to be. And he's fine with that, because he has so much now that he never expected, but it was such a big part of his life for so long, and then it wasn't anymore. Of course it's strange to be without it.

As convenient as his job is for giving him a chance to sit at a piano from time to time, he really didn't think that he would wind up playing in front of J, despite his having offered for J to come here to play in private. And immediately, he feels guilty for that on top of everything else, because he doesn't want to hide anything from the person he loves and doesn't want to feel like he has to, but it did so much damage before. If J plays again, and S wants to support him in that if he does, it should be without the constant comparison that plagued them that last while back in Seoul. It should be his alone, even if S loved more than he can say when it was theirs.

"Me too," he says quietly, still and otherwise at a loss for words. "I didn't know you were coming by. We'll close up soon."

Guilt tugs at J so sharply that, for a moment, his breath catches and feels like it won't come, leaving him with the ridiculous impulse to turn and leave. He knows it wouldn't help — would really just make everything worse — but it's there all the same, the thought that it would have been better if he hadn't come here. He couldn't have known what he'd interrupt, but maybe he should have. Maybe he ought to have expected that it was, at the least, a possibility, that he should have told S he was on the way. It hurts to see S sitting there, pulling back, pulling away from the music because of him.

"I know," he says, shrugging slightly, and takes a careful step forward. He doesn't want to keep so much distance; it feels wrong. At the same time, he feels like he ought to go slowly, like he might spook S if he's too quick. "Sorry, I should have texted. I just..." He exhales sharply, giving S a tiny, crooked smile. "Thought I'd walk home with you. I — you don't have to stop." He bites his lip, resisting the urge to offer to leave. It wouldn't help for him to turn and run now, to act like this is something that needs to be avoided. He doesn't want it to be. It's not easy to talk about and it probably never will be, but it was so much a part of their lives for so long. Cutting it out of their lives — it feels a little like leaving S did, like something he thought was the right thing to do that turned out to be terrible for both of them.

"Not — not for my sake," he adds quickly. "You don't have to play either." If S doesn't want to, if he feels uncomfortable with it, J won't push him, but that hurts too. He can't fault S for it, not in the least; that's why it hurts. The fault lies entirely within himself. For S to avoid music around him is utterly reasonable, and that's not something J can undo.

Immediately, S feels certain that he's said the wrong thing, though he doesn't know how he could have when he's barely said anything at all. Still, it feels wrong, it always does, when there's such awkwardness and distance between them. They spent so long, years of their lives, sitting at pianos together, even when they weren't both playing. He sat beside J at Kagura some months ago, and he was glad to do so, but it seemed somehow different when it was J taking that step for the first time in so long, when S already knew he wouldn't so much as touch the keys. It's different when it's him. Things have changed so much, and he knows it; it's not like it was back in Seoul, when his very existence seemed to set J off, when he couldn't play or write without it somehow being made into a competition. Even so, he doesn't want even to put pieces in place that might risk them winding up there again.

He doesn't want, either, to act like this is some secret, to let it drive a wedge between them in another way. He lets out a soft breath, teeth pressing to his lip, apologetic. "No, you don't need to be sorry," he says. "I'm glad you're here. Really." It's sweet, J stopping in just to walk home with him. Had he not chosen perhaps the worst possible moment to sit and play for a while, he would be thrilled to see his boyfriend here, maybe even introduce him to any other coworkers around. There's no reason for that not to be the case now.

J may have said that he doesn't have to stop, but S lets his hands drop to his lap a moment later, shifting slightly so he can better face J. The urge to beckon him over, to inch sideways enough for J to fit beside him, is so overwhelmingly strong that it hurts, but he ignores it as best he can. If anything, he should move and let J play, the way he offered months ago. "I would love to walk home with you. You just surprised me, that's all."

It's stupid, J tells himself — over-dramatic again — to be upset. He can't help it, though. This hurts. He knows it won't ever be the same again, he does, but that hurts, too, and it's all worse because he knows it's his fault. He can't fix this and he can't blame S for it at all. There's no one to blame but himself, and though he does plenty of that, he knows it won't change anything. This is just how it is now. No matter how much S loves him, no matter how much S trusts him, they can't share this anymore. However much J hates it, he has to understand and be patient. Still, it makes him ache, seeing S turn away from the piano, staying where he is, not playing. It hurts that he's stopped, it hurts that he's so sweet, it hurts that there's no space for J beside him now, that he knows it's for the best. They're happy now, he knows they are, and this doesn't change that. He's known from the start that trying to recapture the past would do more harm than good, that this is a fresh start for them. Even so, it's hard to let go. They were happy then too, at least for a while.

He doesn't know what to say. He wants to push through it for S's sake, to smile and go on like nothing's wrong. If he can't change it, there's no point in getting upset or in upsetting S. But he's never been good at hiding his feelings. He can hide the reasons for them or the extent of them, he can keep all of it to himself, but he's terrible at pretending to be fine when he isn't, at least with S. It's one thing to keep a blank face with people he doesn't care about, but he cherishes his ability to be himself with S, and bringing his guard back up is too difficult. At the same time, he doesn't want to make this into a problem or a discussion, even an argument. It wouldn't fix anything.

"I should have sent you a message," he says again, shrugging, gaze darting from S to rest on the piano instead. He would have loved to play that, he thinks. Maybe another time he will. Tonight, though, the decision has been made for him. He couldn't bear to touch it right now. He fumbles for something to say, something to fill the silence and cover his thoughts. "What time is it now? How long do you have?"

Despite his efforts to smooth this over, to try to avoid drawing attention to the inherent awkwardness of the situation, it isn't difficult to tell that J seems upset. With that being the case, it isn't difficult for S to guess why, either. Though he couldn't have anticipated that J would show up here, S still feels like it's his fault somehow. Until now, playing at work has been safe, a way to do so while avoiding this very sort of situation. It was a very neat, tidy divide, and now that line has been blurred, leaving him to wonder if it was a mistake to be playing at all. Except that can't be right. On the rare occasion the subject has come up, J has encouraged him to play, made a point of saying that he doesn't want S to stop for his sake. Maybe it's different in practice than it was in theory, but more likely, S thinks, he's just being fucking stupid.

The trouble is, he doesn't know how to stop. Instead, he gets to his feet, taking his phone from his pocket as he does so he can check the time. "Ah, only about ten minutes," he answers. They should have just locked up early. No one is going to come in to buy an instrument this close to closing time. J, meanwhile, has said he just thought they could walk home together, but it occurs to S that there may be another reason for his coming by today, so close to the end of the day, his previous offer echoing in the back of his head. "Did you want to play after we close up?"

It's easier by far to think about J doing so than about continuing to do so himself. Which is also probably stupid, when J has far more baggage attached to the piano even than he does, but that baggage is at least part of why S wants him to feel like he can try it if he feels like he can. He shouldn't have to give it up just because of the mess everything became before. "I'd be glad to stay for a while if you do want to try it."

"No," J says quickly, shaking his head, frustrated to find that his voice sounds rough, his throat dry. He refuses to let this get worse. If he cries over this, he'll be furious. He doesn't get to be upset about this. It's how it is, it's how it needs to be, and that's true because of the things he's done and the choices he's made. He behaved terribly long before he left the studio, and things only got worse after. He ruined this all on his own. He doesn't want to make it harder on S than it already is. He wanted S to be able to play if that was what he wanted. That it's no longer theirs doesn't mean it can't still be something they both love. It's too complicated for J to love it the way he used to, and of course that's true for S, too. He has to let it go.

"No," he says again, swallowing hard, trying to soften his voice, his words, "not today. Maybe next time." He might have, he thinks. He misses it again. He's been keeping his distance, returning slowly and only in brief gasps of time, but he'd like to play. Under different circumstances, he thinks he would have. But now it feels all jagged and wrong, and there's too much grief in his heart and in his throat for the things he's killed, not only the people. He couldn't do it now. It wouldn't be right, sliding onto the bench where S has been sitting, playing the piano he played, knowing S won't continue in front of him. For so long, the sight and sound of S playing stung like a personal insult, left him so bitter, but this is a different kind of wound. Before he let jealousy overcome him, the sight of S at the piano made him so happy. The warmth he once felt, the attraction and adoration — for just a moment here, he had some measure of that back, but that's all it was, a moment, a measure, a ghost of the past. He can't revive that.

He draws in a deep breath and shrugs, glancing around the store. "Can I help? Is there something I can do?"

S frowns, uncertain for a moment how to respond. The question is simple enough, and his answer should be, too. While he appreciates the offer, there really isn't much to be done or anything for J to do. Closing up isn't a particularly involved process. Even on the store's busiest days, it doesn't get particularly chaotic in here. Mostly, he just needs to make sure everything is still in place, and he gave it all a look, straightened up a bit, before he sat down to play anyway. He makes a point to give himself a chance to sit at a piano when he can, but it tends to be his last priority these days.

Right now, he wishes he hadn't touched it at all. He can hear in J's voice that something is wrong, and even as a part of him knows it's illogical, all S can think is that his playing must be the source of that upset. There may not be the jealousy and resentment from before, but there's still so much weight attached to this instrument and their relationships with it, in so many different ways. He hasn't played a piano around J since that night, for one, remembering too well now how J asked him to do so for the last time. In the moment, he'd been stubborn, masking desperation with flippancy, wanting so badly to connect with J somehow. Now, he supposes that it would have been the last time after all if J hadn't come by the shop today, should those few moments even be enough to count.

"Not really," he says, "but thank you. It's been quiet, there's not much to take care of." He pauses, takes a breath. Both talking about it and not talking about it seem like terrible ideas, so he has to pick one and just hope it's the less terrible of the two. "I'm sorry you came in just then. I just knew I had a few free minutes, so I thought I'd do something with it."

It would be worse, J knows, if he left, but he can't help feeling sorry he came in, too. He's upset and he can't stop that, even if he thinks he's wrong to be, and S knows him too well to miss it, which means S is going to be upset, too, very soon, if he isn't already. It makes J nervous, afraid he'll say something stupid or start crying when someone else might still be here, afraid he'll hurt S again, the way he always does.

He shakes his head again, the quiet in the room too loud. "No, no," he says. It's hard, trying to speak clearly, trying to say things the way he means them. "No, that's good. I'm glad you did. I didn't mean to interrupt." He wants to say he's sorry, can feel it caught in his throat, but he knows he shouldn't. S would tell him he doesn't need to, and he'd just feel worse somehow. He just doesn't know what else to do with this surge of guilt and grief.

He's had so many of those, of course, but there are different kinds, and this is a knot he has no idea of how to unravel, mostly because he doesn't think he can. This isn't something they can just talk out and fix. No discussion is going to put right his past actions. All he can do is just try to move through it. The last thing he wants is to let talking turn to venting that leads S to be afraid to play even in private. He's done too much harm already. Perhaps this is the least of it, but he's tired of it. It's impossible, he knows, to continue living his life and never hurt anyone at all in any way, and he knows it wouldn't help either of them for him to become some meek shadow of himself, always in agreement. Still, he just wants to do as little damage as he can with the rest of his life.

Which, of course, would be simpler if he had an easy reply at hand or the emotional fortitude not to be a whiny baby about this, but then he also doesn't want to lie to S or start hiding things again, so he's left with this, standing alone, awkward and miserable, ashamed and uncertain of what he's supposed to do or say. And, as usual, his best efforts come to nothing, his chin wobbling before he can help himself, head turning so he can try and maintain his composure, blurting out a shaky "Sorry. Really, I'm sorry."

Immediately, uselessly, S wishes they were home rather than here. This subject is one too emotional for them to be dealing with it here, at least while he knows they aren't the only ones in the store. He should text his coworker and tell her just to go, that he'll finish taking care of everything here, but even doing that seems like too much yet, a strange, uncomfortable tension hanging in the air, thick and oppressive and maybe just in his head. For the two of them to be alone would be better, but it still wouldn't really be right. The apartment is their space, one they've spent the past year turning into a home. It's safe, and it's familiar. This is decidedly his territory, somewhere he spends a significant portion of most days and that J has only stopped in briefly before. It makes this feel all the more unbalanced, the store suddenly too big and unwelcoming, what he was doing probably only making it more so. That, too, is something he has that J doesn't.

And S knows that isn't right, not really. J has played some, back when Kagura was still open. He's tried to give J opportunities to do so, or at least to feel like he safely can. Again, though, he can't help coming back to the thought that maybe he just shouldn't have been playing at all. J has never tried to stop him — the opposite, really, is true — but maybe for him just to have that opportunity while J won't allow it for himself is unfair. The whole situation is awful and confusing, and for maybe the millionth time in the last few years, S wonders how they even got here at all. Music used to be something they shared; it was one of the ways they fell in love. Now, instead, it feels like it can be only one of theirs at most. If that's going to be the case, though, then he thinks it should be J's.

He just doesn't know how to say that, at least not without making everything worse. He doesn't know what's wrong, either, and as such, he doesn't know how to fix it. Mouth still set in a frown, he curls his hands in once more, nails pressing to his palms, opening again a moment later. "You didn't do anything," he says, a gentle rebuttal, his voice soft. "I don't know what you're apologizing for." He should be the one apologizing, probably. He bites that back as best he can. "I'm — I didn't mean to upset you."

J closes his eyes, trying to make himself breathe more deeply, think more clearly. S is right, he realizes. Once again, J simply hasn't told him. He's always so sure in the moment that keeping it to himself is better, that there's no use in communicating these things. It's not that he thinks S will be upset with him or think less of him anymore, or that he thinks S doesn't deserve to know. He just doesn't see the point in debating things that can't be changed. That always seems like the right choice until he's reminded it is. If he were better at keeping it contained, that would be one thing, and really only when it's something that doesn't particularly impact them. Whether he likes it or not, though, this does, even if he can't quite articulate it, and it's not fair to stand here upset and apologizing and making S guess why.

That's especially so when S does what J does, too, assumes it's his own fault. They both do it, but it hurts J more coming from S, his heart constricting at those words. It's nothing like the past, but it feels familiar, and he doesn't want that. He can't bear that. "No," he says again, quick, shaking his head once more. "You didn't." He upset himself. All of this is his own fault, from the things he did that brought him here to his own inability to react rationally to that. That's part of what hurts so much. It didn't have to be like this. They could have shared this for the rest of their lives, but he cut all of it short, left it jagged and raw and unresolved and impossible to fix, and he can't help feeling guilty for feeling that way. Everything else in his life, everything outside his own head, is wonderful. Letting this go is one cost of that, and it's not fair or right to be upset about that.

He doesn't know how to say this. He doesn't know how to put it into words that will make sense of it for both of them, or how to ask S if they're alone, suddenly irrationally afraid it would sound like a threat. He's been doing better the last couple months, and it's overwhelming to find himself here again, anxious and unable to find his voice. He swallows hard, eyes squeezing tight shut, jaw clenching as he opens them again, looking wide-eyed to S. Please. "It's okay," he manages, "I'm —" He's not though. He stops himself, breathes deep, forces himself to answer more honestly. "I am upset." This is so much harder than it probably should be, but he can't help the difficulty of it when he feels ashamed for reacting this way at all. He didn't want to do this, didn't want to make it harder for S to play. "Not at you. Not with you. It's me. Just me."

This, too, seems wrong. J didn't do anything except stop by so they could walk home together, the gesture thoughtful in the way that S sometimes wonders if J even realizes he is. Instead they've wound up here, and whatever J says, S sees no way that isn't on him. Had he not chosen that precise fucking moment to get some piano-playing out of his system, they would be smiling and getting ready to head home. Even that doesn't matter half as much as the fact that just about anything would probably be better than this, with J suddenly seeming impossibly far away, though the distance between them is only that of a few feet. It would be funny if it weren't so deeply sad. Music was one of the things that first brought them together. Now it's one of the only things that comes between them, this distance one he doesn't know how to close, this problem one he doesn't know how to solve.

That helpless sensation isn't new, but he hates it as much as he ever did, shifting his weight for a moment, weighing his words. "But you didn't do anything," he finally murmurs, because it's the one thing that keeps running through his head. He almost goes a step further with it, even, pointing out that J was thinking of him, while he was only thinking of himself, but he reminds himself again that that can't be right. J gave him sheet music for Christmas. That one night in bed that they talked about it is mostly hazy from the sleep deprivation and all the crying that took place, but he remembers how distraught J sounded saying that he felt like he'd taken this from him. J clearly wouldn't have wanted him to give it up. Except now that they're here, with S having played in front of him for only a moment and entirely by accident, and something is already so off-kilter. He doesn't see how that could possibly be for any other reason but him.

"Can we —" He wants to talk this through, to figure out what's going on. He wants to be back at home, where they don't have to worry about anything or anyone else. Neither of those is something he can simply make happen, though, and he frowns again for a moment, apologetic. "I have a coworker in the back. Let me text her and tell her just to leave, alright? Then maybe we can... sit for a few minutes, or something?" He takes a step closer. This distance won't close itself, and he can't see J look like this and just stay away. "Please?"

There's so much he's done, J thinks, so much he got wrong. Most of it happened well before today, but even this, he's fucking up. He can't make S understand that without saying more, though, and if he says more, he really will start crying, something he refuses to do when someone else is here. It's already difficult not to, seeing the worry in S's expression, seeing him take that step nearer to J. All he wants is to close this distance and let S hold him, let him soothe this down to something bearable like only he can, but that, too, would first involve tears.

Instead he nods quickly, pushing through the sense of being frozen, making himself take a step closer, too. When he can't find the right words, when he's afraid to say them when someone else could hear, this is the only way he has to show S he means what he's saying. This isn't S's fault, not even close. And he's trying, he knows he's trying to do his best here, to communicate as much as he can make himself now that he sees his mistake, but that doesn't make J feel any less guilty for feeling like this at all. He takes a slow, shaky breath, steadying himself as best he can while S takes care of this.

"Will she come this way?" he asks after a moment. If so, he needs to duck behind a shelf or something, hide his face. He doesn't want to make S's job complicated, too, and lead S's coworker to ask questions or gossip.

It's such a small thing. It shouldn't even matter, really, J taking a step closer, and certainly not to the extent it does. Back when they'd first gotten here, those first few days during which they were still finding their footing with each other again, S would have understood it, the wave of relief in one simple movement, the way it nearly makes his composure give way. Now, though, there's not really any good reason for it. It happens anyway, his breath leaving him on a rush, his hand reaching out to squeeze J's for a moment before he lets go again. He doesn't really want to, but he does need to deal with the fact that they aren't the only people in the store. Once they are, it still won't be an ideal place to talk through whatever is going on, but at least they'll have privacy. It's the best he can do in this situation. At least it's something he can do at all.

"She might," he answers, pulling a face even as he takes his phone out of his pocket to start composing a text message. He tries to choose his words carefully, not wanting to let onto the fact that there's something wrong and risk her asking questions, but wanting to make sure she actually does leave. "But she'll probably just go out the back way. I'm telling her I'll take care of everything up here."

Glancing up from his phone as the message sends, he swallows hard, his expression worried but a touch hopeful. "Either way, she'll be gone soon. And we can talk."

It doesn't fix things, J knows that. Even so, the feel of S's hand wrapped briefly around his and the way his nose wrinkles as he starts to text are enough to make J feel a little better, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, fondness softening the jagged edges of his hurt. They figure things out, he tells himself. They get through things. He knows that there's not really anything they can do to change how things are now, and that that's going to hurt probably forever, but they can get through it. He just has to breathe.

That, at least, feels somewhat easier now. As daunting as the idea of talking is, it'll be better. J tells himself so again and again, reminds himself quietly of how many times talking has helped. It's not a cure and it doesn't undo the damage he's done, but it helps. Every time he does it, S knows him better still, and he's reminded all over again how loved and wanted he is. This won't be the time that breaks them. It's better, no matter how hard, than leaving S in the dark, letting this eat at them both all on their own.

It's just such a difficult topic. It's always going to be, and it feels like it shouldn't have to be, that J's being greedy or cruel having such strong feelings about another mess he made. Talking about it is unnerving even before S mentions that's what they'll do, and then all J can do is wait, gaze darting nervously behind S toward the back, waiting to see if someone will emerge and if he'll have to make himself move from this spot.

S feels for a few moments like he's holding his breath, watching as his sent message gets a little delivered label underneath it, followed by the ellipsis that means the other person is typing. A part of him feels guilty, too, for hoping she just leaves out the back. He very much wants to introduce J to the people he works with — ones he might not be close to, exactly, but who all seem like good people. He likes working here, and not just because it affords him time to play the piano on occasion, an opportunity he wouldn't get nearly anywhere else.

Of course, today, that's the whole root of the problem, or it feels like it is. He won't know for sure until he's certain that the two of them are alone here, and until then, he isn't sure what else to say or do. Fortunately, it doesn't take long until a response comes in — largely as expected, his coworker thanking him for closing up and saying that she'll see him tomorrow. There's no sound of anyone else approaching, so he waits another moment, then sighs as he lowers his arms. It's fine. They'll be fine. It just hurts, is all.

"She's leaving," he says, glancing behind him just to make sure she doesn't seem to be approaching. Still there's nothing, and it's both relieving and daunting. Better not to have to wait, or to lie, or pretend that everything is alright when something very much isn't, but he's not entirely sure how to talk about this. It's one subject that's stayed not entirely, but mostly untouched. "There aren't many places to sit, but..."

But he'd rather do that than just awkwardly stand here. It would be easier, he thinks, if they were at each other's side, not facing each other, only making him more aware of that distance.

J shakes his head at that, reaching for S's hand again now that it's free. He doesn't care if they sit or stand. Neither one is easy or comfortable right now, and the only place he sees is at the piano and he doesn't know if that would just make things worse. As it is, all he really wants is to be held and confess all the stupid things he's feeling, even though he knows it will hurt S, because S hates to see him in pain, hates not being able to put things right. There's a part of him that still, always, thinks it's stronger to keep it to himself and not put S through that. It's a part he's very much had to fight, pitting the instinct of it against the very real fact that S has told him otherwise. At the same time, part of him just wants to be comforted, even as he feels guilty for that. It's his own fault, all of it is, he knows that.

"I'm sorry," he says again, helpless, knowing it's not what S wants to hear. "I really... I didn't mean to get all... Do you want to sit? I don't know where. I — Sihyun-ah, really, I'm okay. It's okay. I'm just... sad. It's stupid." He doesn't know what to do with his free hand or, really, any part of himself, feeling aimless and at a loss, looking pleadingly to S for some kind of an answer or reassurance. "We can sit, we can stand, just — hold me for a minute, okay?"

Whether or not it makes sense for him to seek comfort, whether or not it's fair, he also knows that asking for it, warranted or not, is better than continuing to flail around about it. Sometimes being held helps to calm him down. It feels safer somehow, like S is protecting him, which, really, he is. Maybe if S does that for a bit, J will have a chance to have a coherent thought and the ability to express it.

That part, at least, is easy. Just having permission to get closer would have been enough for the relief to start to outweigh everything else, and being asked to do so makes it even more so. And while he does kind of want to sit, even if it's just on the floor for lack of anywhere else, he doesn't want to make J wait, not after a request like that. They can figure that out a little later. For now, he nods, then steps in toward J, free arm wrapping around him to hold him close, S's eyes falling shut for a moment. He's sad, too, and it probably is stupid, but at least there's this. Whatever else might be wrong right now, not everything is. It's not going to do any real damage. Having anything that pertains to this subject come up is never pleasant, but they'll be alright.

Ultimately, that's all that really matters. S would readily never touch a piano again if that were what it took to keep this. It would hurt, but it would be worth it. He half-wonders if that's where this is going, but he knows better than to ask about it outright, especially when J is, okay or not, already shaken. Reassurance is most important. Anything else can come after.

"You don't need to be sorry," he murmurs into J's shoulder, the words instinctive but true. Again, he thinks that J didn't even do anything but stop by so they could walk home together. Despite the probable contradiction in his own logic, S still hates that he likely ruined that sweet gesture by choosing exactly the wrong time to sit and play for a while.

He doesn't mean to say that. Standing there, idly smoothing his hand along J's back, he doesn't really mean to say anything else yet. The words that follow spill out before S even realizes it, some old insecurity bringing them forth, his voice even quieter now, unsure. "Does it... Does it really upset you that much? Hearing me play?"

Once S's arm is around him, J lets go of his hand, wrapping his arms around S's waist. It helps, being held, having that closeness. It leaves him feeling a little more raw, as if it's harder to hold the feelings back when he's being comforted, but even so, it feels better, safer, than the alternative. The slow movement of S's hand down his back steadies J's breathing, and though he could easily protest what S first says, he doesn't. He just needs a moment like this, quiet, aware of how loved he is.

It stings, though, when S speaks again, a sharp pang in J's chest as he starts to shake his head. He doesn't look up. He's not entirely sure how to make himself move the way he wants to, his body feeling not quite in his control sometimes when he gets like this. "No, no," he says quickly. Once he does, though, he's not sure if it's true or not. It did upset him to hear, after all, but it's more complicated than that. "I..."

He sucks in a sharp breath, trying to figure out how to say this, how to make himself say it. It feels so pointlessly selfish. Or it did. That feeling lingers, but it seems less important than making sure S knows this isn't like before. He's not angry, he's not jealous. He's just sad. "It's not the same," he says. "Fuck, I feel so stupid." There's no way he can say anything now without making both of them feel terrible. Just fumbling for the words leaves him feeling like his throat is growing too tight. "It's not the playing, it's the stopping. Which is fine, I understand, it's okay. It's — I get it, I do."

They can't ever have the past back. That's fine too, but this one part mattered so much for so long, it's hard to let it go, harder still because he's the one who ruined it. "I can handle it," he murmurs. "I will." There's no alternative to that, really. Still, that doesn't keep him from having to close his eyes tight, trying to keep himself from crying.

At first, before he's really taken anything in, S wants to apologize, to reassure, to tell J that it isn't stupid. Whatever music used to be for them, it's so fraught now in so many different ways. The way it came between them, the things it contributed to driving J to do — no matter how much better everything is here or how far behind them all of that is, none of that can ever just be forgotten. For J to be emotional now is reasonable, and about what S would have expected. He just hates being the cause of it, especially when it could have been so easily avoided. Talking about it, on the rare occasion the subject has come up, is one thing. Having J walk in not knowing he would be at the piano is another entirely.

The more J says, though, the less S can make sense of it. Without pulling away, both arms around J now, he frowns a little, brow furrowing in confusion. "You're upset because I stopped?" he asks, quiet but confused. "I... I stopped because I didn't want to upset you." Little as he can comprehend all of this, it still comes down to the fact that he misstepped, and that all of this could have been avoided if he hadn't played. No matter how much he misses it, it doesn't feel right for it just to be his, like he's just showing off the fact that he gets to do something that J doesn't allow himself anymore. He would rather encourage J to get back to it, if he ever feels like he can.

Despite the things that J has said when they've talked about this before, he just can't reconcile what it sounds like J is saying with what's been in his head. He'll have to wait for clarity, though it at least helps to have J close in the meantime, to feel him warm and solid and holding on in turn. If the past year has taught him anything — well, it's taught him a lot of things, really, but among them is the fact that, although it helped bring them together, their relationship doesn't need to be bound together by piano. Even if neither one of them ever plays a note again, S truly believes they'll be fine. After the way they fell apart before, that means a hell of a lot.

J nestles into S, face tucked against his shoulder, nodding a little. It's so utterly stupid, which only makes it all even worse. If he were upset for a reason that makes sense or that was somehow justified, at least there would be that bit of solace, but this is absurd and unfair. That makes it harder to pull himself together, though, hurt and guilt building on each other until it's difficult to speak.

"I know," he mumbles. That's the problem. S has every reason to worry that he'd react badly, every reason to think J might become mean or jealous or petty. J spent long enough afraid of the very possibility of playing again to understand why. As it is, he's still a bit nervous about it, even though he's let himself play a little bit a handful of times over the last several months. Playing in public for a few minutes here and there at least removes him from the habit of trying to do more than just play. He's not there to write music and there are people around, their quiet chatter helping to keep him present. Of course, when he has to work up his nerve to let himself play at all because of the terrible things he did in the past, of course S would worry he'd be upset. J has no right to want or expect anything else.

He still does, though. "Sorry," he murmurs again. "I know — I know it's not the same... I know it won't ever be." As hard as he tries to hold himself together, just saying that makes his chest ache, throat tight, tears welling up. He doesn't want to go back to the past. What they have now is what he wants. That doesn't mean there aren't parts he loves, parts that mattered, things he wishes he could have kept. "It hurts though. It was ours and I ruined it. I missed — fuck, I miss it, and just for a moment —" His voice is too shaky now, the way he shuts his eyes tight still not enough to keep him from crying. It's so stupid, so cruel, saying these things, pushing his guilt onto S. The last thing he wants is for S to stop playing again because of him. Not being able to keep that part of their past shouldn't have to mean it can't be part of S's future. It just hurts desperately to know that he is himself the reason he doesn't get to share in that.

There still must be, S thinks, something he isn't entirely grasping here. Something is obviously wrong, and there are certainly wires crossed, when the thing he was doing to stop J from getting upset has wound up having completely the opposite effect. He just can't grasp what the problem is, at least in that regard. Some of the rest, he's heard J say before. As much as it hurts, he's pretty sure that, no matter how many times he says otherwise, J will never stop believing that he ruined it. S is convinced instead that that's on him. If he'd just fucking stopped sooner — pursued something else, not persistently been right there for J to compare himself to, turning it into a competition despite wanting nothing of the sort — then maybe everything wouldn't have fallen apart so catastrophically. Maybe J could still let himself have this.

For a moment, S stays quiet, trying to take all of this in. At least he has J here and close, turning his head a little so he can brush a kiss against J's hair. "You didn't," he murmurs shakily. "You didn't ruin it." He can't negate the rest. It was theirs, and it's not anymore, and he misses it, too. Even when he plays, he misses it, a part of him hoping every single time he does that he'll get back a little of the passion he once felt for it. So far, it hasn't happened. There's no way that could possibly be J's fault when J hasn't done anything but encourage him to continue if he wants to. "I just... I know you don't play much anymore, and..."

This is all wrong. It makes his chest feel tight, frustration building in him, though he tries hard not to let it show, not wanting J to misconstrue it as being directed at him. It's entirely at himself, and his stupid, stupid habit of saying the wrong thing, words coming out all twisted and making his intention seem different than it is. He might not have fucked this up too badly yet, but there's still every chance he could do so. Sighing, he curls his fingers absently in J's shirt. "I didn't want to hurt you," he finishes, quieter still, aware that he's being redundant but not knowing what else to say. "But I guess I did anyway."

J wants to protest again, and he still thinks he's right, but debating the precise cause of his hurt might not actually be all that helpful. It was the fact that S stopped playing that set his thoughts in motion, so in that respect, maybe it's true. He just doesn't think it's the same thing, when he knows what hurts is what he's lost and his own role in that.

Besides, what S says first is too wrong for the rest to matter. "I did though," he says quietly. "It's... Sihyun-ah, it's okay that you stopped. I understand." He forces himself to take a slow, shuddering breath, drawing his head back enough to glance up at S. There's no use in pretend he's not teary, no use in hiding that, and he wants to see S, wants S to see him. Hiding doesn't make this all that much easier anyway. "That's what hurts. I understand. All the reasons why you — why you wouldn't want to play around me anymore. I can't be upset with you or mad at you for it. It makes sense. And that hurts. I did this. I made things like this." He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. "I can't undo it, I know that." If anything, that makes it hurt more, and makes that pain all the more pointless. He wants S to play, if that's what S wants. Voicing this isn't going to help with that.

But, he reminds himself, neither will silence. Keeping S out has never helped. It's part of what caused all this to begin with. No matter how hard it is to talk about this, how his jaw trembles and his voice shakes, he can't repeat those mistakes again. There's too much he can't fix, but he can at least do his best not to make things worse or let it get bad again.

None of this is right. It could just be how horrible it feels to think that at all about something that used to be incredibly right for them, but everything seems so terribly off-kilter, and S still doesn't know what to do about it. He can't fix this. No matter how hard he tries, he can't undo any of it either — can't go back and give himself something other than piano to focus on, can't prevent all that jealousy from taking root within J, can't take back the things that J did in service of the music. He can't bring back his own love of it, either. Although he's tried, he also isn't sure he would want to succeed. Over and over, he comes back to the thought that it would just feel wrong for it to be only his and not J's anymore, and that's the piece he struggles to put into words. With as different as things are now from the way they were back in Seoul as their relationship splintered apart, it isn't that he expects J to grow angry or resentful again. He just doesn't see how it wouldn't just come between them.

"Fuck," he mumbles, at a loss for a moment. Despite the fact that some of what they're saying is the same, it feels like they're talking about different things. He's not sure how to express it, though, or how to offer any kind of reassurance when it's at least true that the way J was about S's playing before changed things. S doesn't hold a grudge, but it would have been impossible not to have his perspective altered by that somewhat.

He takes another deep breath, letting it out heavily, trying to remain composed if only because they're still at his place of work, the front door unlocked, even if he doubts anyone will come in. The setting alone makes this inherently awkward, but he's not sure it would have come up any other way. He doesn't play anywhere else, and aside from when he's tried to gently encourage J to play, he doesn't really talk about it, either. "It's not — that I don't want to," he tries, frowning deeply, a crease in his brow, just the sight of J in tears making it that much harder for him to keep it together. "It just doesn't seem fair. You barely let yourself play, and... I want you to feel like you can again, if you want to. I don't want to get in the way of that. Or... show off that I'm playing while you're not." He looks at J, quietly pleading. "I'm not saying it right."

A faint edge of panic hums along J's skin, but he waits, he makes himself wait, quiet, watching, for S to say more than fuck. He wants to take it all back, afraid and aching and so painfully guilty, scared he's made S feel the same way. He doesn't. It's hard work. He wouldn't have called it that before, didn't understand how difficult it could be to wait and be patient and trust; he had his anxieties as an adolescent but it was never so bad. He rarely had to worry what S would think of him. Even when he clumsily, thoughtlessly came out, it was because of how easy things were between them and how safe he felt. He didn't get it then, that it required, on some level, that he trusted himself too. Knowing who he was, what he wanted, having that certainty of self made awkward pauses and concerns easier to bear. Though he's doing better here than he did for a long time before this, he still spends far too much time lost in doubt and self-recrimination.

So much that he doesn't expect what S says, his brow furrowing in turn, confused. "Maybe," he allows, because maybe it's true that S isn't putting it right. He doesn't quite understand what he's hearing, after all. "I... you're not in my way. Or showing off. I'm in your way." He's been vaguely aware, after all, that S plays at work sometimes, but it's just been an idea. S hardly ever mentions it. He keeps it to himself and stops when J catches him. If anyone's holding anybody back, it's J. Of course it's something S keeps private. How can J expect S to trust him in this setting when J's still struggling to trust himself? How can S play in front of him when, last time, J nearly killed him? How can it possibly be unfair of S to do so? "I — the reasons I — I'm slow, I'm careful — that's my fault too, not yours."

His pulse throbs in his throat, his gaze dropping again. It won't do much to hide the tears, but he's tired and sad and, even with his vision blurry, he can't quite look at S when the shame sits so heavy in his chest. He's barely able to trust himself on any but the best of days. That's no one's fault but his own.