Put like that, it makes total sense, of course, the same thing that S himself has said on numerous occasions. He would rather know than not know, he would rather hear painful truths than be left to wonder about them, he likes knowing that they can weather any situations that come their way. Somehow, with this one thing, he just never considered it from that perspective. He felt so sure that he already knew where they stood, enough that no other possibilities occurred to hm. At most, he figured that J would probably tell him not to give it up, if S had ever admitted what was on his mind, but that it would then still be there, making them miserable, driving a wedge between them all over again. He never thought that they might both be unhappier not talking about it.
The problem, he supposes, is exactly what J has just said, in a way. It was theirs once, but it hasn't felt like it in a long time, not to S. That broke a long time ago, slipping through his fingers so quickly that it was all but gone already by the time he tried to grab hold of it again. Things are different now, and he holds no resentment over the way it was then, but he's never stopped seeing the piano, and in particular his playing and composing, as part of what went so wrong. Besides, he meant what he's said to J about it before. Somewhere down the line, he fell out of love with it. After J left, after he fucking died, of course that passion extinguished. He just wonders now if it never reignited again because part of him didn't want it to, thinking it was easier that way, better.
"I should have said, too," he murmurs, apologetic, dropping his head to J's shoulder for a moment. They both should have, but at least they have now. That, in his opinion, counts for a hell of a lot. "It is better to know for sure. Even if it hurts." With a slow exhale, he reaches over, blindly taking one of J's hands in his own. "And I know you wouldn't have wanted me to give things up. That you wouldn't have... asked for that, or expected it. I just thought it was right. Like maybe if it had been that way from the start..."
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The problem, he supposes, is exactly what J has just said, in a way. It was theirs once, but it hasn't felt like it in a long time, not to S. That broke a long time ago, slipping through his fingers so quickly that it was all but gone already by the time he tried to grab hold of it again. Things are different now, and he holds no resentment over the way it was then, but he's never stopped seeing the piano, and in particular his playing and composing, as part of what went so wrong. Besides, he meant what he's said to J about it before. Somewhere down the line, he fell out of love with it. After J left, after he fucking died, of course that passion extinguished. He just wonders now if it never reignited again because part of him didn't want it to, thinking it was easier that way, better.
"I should have said, too," he murmurs, apologetic, dropping his head to J's shoulder for a moment. They both should have, but at least they have now. That, in his opinion, counts for a hell of a lot. "It is better to know for sure. Even if it hurts." With a slow exhale, he reaches over, blindly taking one of J's hands in his own. "And I know you wouldn't have wanted me to give things up. That you wouldn't have... asked for that, or expected it. I just thought it was right. Like maybe if it had been that way from the start..."