Most of the time, when S plays now, he doesn't do so with any particular degree of seriousness. He doesn't take it too lightly, but he plays only for the sake of it — for fun, and to not fall totally out of practice. Sometimes there are coworkers around, but he's certainly not playing for an audience or any kind of achievement these days. Now, though, there's a weight to it that he isn't used to, making him hyper-aware of every note he plays, every shift of his hands. He's not as good as he used to be, and he knows it. There's nothing about their current situation to suggest that J will judge or think less of him for it, but S can't help feeling self-conscious even so, worried he'll somehow disappoint. The insecurity isn't a very familiar one — he was always calmly confident before, knowing that he could play well, but not seeing himself the way J did — but there have been a good few of those over the last year. Having another now, when everything about this has changed, isn't such a surprise.

All he can really do is continue, likewise incredibly aware of J beside him. For so long, he tried not to let himself miss this. It was easier to give himself distance from music, even while surrounding himself with it. Now that they're here, he's too nervous for it to feel right yet, the way it did from the time they were children, but it's not wrong. Even if he pointedly cannot bring himself to look over at J, not wanting to break his concentration or grow too emotional, he can practically sense the energy being given off, a distinct lack of the old tension. This is something different. It should be.

About halfway through, he tapers off, breath shallow, chest tight. His hands linger there against the keys, and then he lets them fall to his lap again, one resting warm and gentle over J's. Only then does he turn again, eyes wide with uncertainty and, despite himself, just a trace of hope. "Is this alright?" he asks, quiet, just for J. It should be obvious, probably, but he has to be sure. "Are you..."