J smiles, head ever so slightly turned so he can see S without openly staring. It's a position he perfected as a teenager, quietly, awkwardly in love, trying not to be terribly obvious. Actually, he thinks, he liked perfected it before he even understood why. He watches like this, waiting, S's contemplative silence enough to make him want to keep quiet in turn. He knows how it feels when S is considering something, the pause of him weighing his options. Whatever he decides on, J wants it to be his. If he wants to wait, if he dives in, it's his choice to make, not J's, and J tries to keep the weight of his longing in check. He got good at that as a teenager, too.
It's not until he hears the slow, deliberate breath S takes, preparing to play, that J realizes he's all but holding his own. He takes one to match, or tries to; it catches in his throat as S's fingers grace the keys.
It's a beautiful piece, one it takes J a moment to place. He hasn't listened very much to classical pieces since he came here. He's tentative when it comes to music in general, wanting and still unsure. Even before he recalls the name and composer, though, he feels the rightness of it, wandering and longing and thoughtful, coaxing and curious. S's touch is light and deft, and J can feel his heart reply, fluttering untethered in his chest. He knew the day he came here that he'd been forgiven, whether or not he deserved it. He's not even sure S has ever actually said those words, I forgive you. It's never been necessary. But this, getting to sit next to S and listen to him again, in spite of all he did wrong over the years — it makes him feel it all over again. Warmed through and aching at once, he closes his eyes, and it's enough to hold back the tears that well up again for now. He's missed this and he's grateful for it, soaking in the beauty of Debussy's work and S's skill like parched land after a long-awaited rain. For a while, music and what it means to him has been a difficult thing to wrap his head around, but like this, he can feel it again, just for a while, the notes soothing him as delicately and with as much certainty as ever.
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It's not until he hears the slow, deliberate breath S takes, preparing to play, that J realizes he's all but holding his own. He takes one to match, or tries to; it catches in his throat as S's fingers grace the keys.
It's a beautiful piece, one it takes J a moment to place. He hasn't listened very much to classical pieces since he came here. He's tentative when it comes to music in general, wanting and still unsure. Even before he recalls the name and composer, though, he feels the rightness of it, wandering and longing and thoughtful, coaxing and curious. S's touch is light and deft, and J can feel his heart reply, fluttering untethered in his chest. He knew the day he came here that he'd been forgiven, whether or not he deserved it. He's not even sure S has ever actually said those words, I forgive you. It's never been necessary. But this, getting to sit next to S and listen to him again, in spite of all he did wrong over the years — it makes him feel it all over again. Warmed through and aching at once, he closes his eyes, and it's enough to hold back the tears that well up again for now. He's missed this and he's grateful for it, soaking in the beauty of Debussy's work and S's skill like parched land after a long-awaited rain. For a while, music and what it means to him has been a difficult thing to wrap his head around, but like this, he can feel it again, just for a while, the notes soothing him as delicately and with as much certainty as ever.