It's such a small gesture, J's hand unlacing from his to rest on his leg instead. The meaning of it — the quiet encouragement in it — is clear, though, echoed by the words that accompany it. Even now, there's a part of S that wishes for something more overt, an express request of some kind, but at least he knows now that they're coming at this from opposite perspectives. Where he might need to know that this is not only allowed, but wanted, it's clear that J needs to know that he's choosing this himself, not feeling pushed or cornered into it. This, then, might be the best middle ground for both of them, a tiny sign for him to continue that leaves it still in his hands. In a way, what J says helps, too. The fact that he would come back for this says a lot about how much he must really want it. If he didn't, it would be easy to let it go, to leave it at not today and simply never revisit the idea, no harm done.
Still S is tentative, though he knows that's more to do with himself than with J or any fear of this going badly. It's been such a long time since he's done this, and he's not sure if the last time, that last night, should even count. He played because J asked him to, but it was short-lived and ended disastrously, perhaps even doing more harm to the situation, if that's actually possible. Before then, it had been nearly a year since they'd seen each other at all; now, it's been more than a year here that they've been together but he's carefully avoided playing the piano around J. In light of everything they've just said, though, it doesn't feel like going backwards, revisiting a time that's long gone. It feels at least like it could be starting something new, figuring it out as they go. He hopes that proves to be the case, anyway.
"That's probably true," he murmurs, soft and fond, turning his head to press a kiss to J's cheek again. "But I like it that way." When he looks back at the piano, he's quiet for a moment, thoughtful, considering his options. He could stop and save this for later, let the conversation they've had be enough of a step forward for the time being. If he puts it off, though, he's not sure if or when he'll take that initiative again. And if he does play, he has to decide what. Going back to the Tchaikovsky seems wrong now; it's too melancholy for this moment, when they're likely enough to wind up emotional anyway. For the same reason, so does something too upbeat seem like it would be out of place.
Finally, taking a slow, deep breath, he brings his other hand up to the keys, letting them rest there, focusing on the steady warmth of J beside him. Then, after another moment, he begins to play Debussy's "Rêverie," delicate and wistful. It's always been one of his favorites, and it seems right for this moment, a memory and something new all at once.
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Still S is tentative, though he knows that's more to do with himself than with J or any fear of this going badly. It's been such a long time since he's done this, and he's not sure if the last time, that last night, should even count. He played because J asked him to, but it was short-lived and ended disastrously, perhaps even doing more harm to the situation, if that's actually possible. Before then, it had been nearly a year since they'd seen each other at all; now, it's been more than a year here that they've been together but he's carefully avoided playing the piano around J. In light of everything they've just said, though, it doesn't feel like going backwards, revisiting a time that's long gone. It feels at least like it could be starting something new, figuring it out as they go. He hopes that proves to be the case, anyway.
"That's probably true," he murmurs, soft and fond, turning his head to press a kiss to J's cheek again. "But I like it that way." When he looks back at the piano, he's quiet for a moment, thoughtful, considering his options. He could stop and save this for later, let the conversation they've had be enough of a step forward for the time being. If he puts it off, though, he's not sure if or when he'll take that initiative again. And if he does play, he has to decide what. Going back to the Tchaikovsky seems wrong now; it's too melancholy for this moment, when they're likely enough to wind up emotional anyway. For the same reason, so does something too upbeat seem like it would be out of place.
Finally, taking a slow, deep breath, he brings his other hand up to the keys, letting them rest there, focusing on the steady warmth of J beside him. Then, after another moment, he begins to play Debussy's "Rêverie," delicate and wistful. It's always been one of his favorites, and it seems right for this moment, a memory and something new all at once.