It isn't the first time S has heard J say something to that effect, but somehow it hits differently in context like this. For a long, long time now, S has been at least half-convinced that it would have been better if he'd never gotten into piano at all — if he'd tried his hand at a different instrument, perhaps, still enabling them to play together but without the sense of competition that developed on J's part, or if he'd had another interest entirely and just supported J in his music. He doesn't know what else that would have changed, though. They would have fallen in love regardless, he's sure of that, but it's difficult to imagine them doing so without it being at the piano, the song J wrote for him bright and bittersweet in the air. It was always there, a lovely constant between them. He's told himself this past year that it's nice to know that they don't need piano to get by together, and he really does believe that.

But it was so present before that the lack of it has been a practically tangible thing, and all he's really been able to do is try to avoid that space, keeping a careful distance so he could keep trying to believe that it didn't matter. J walking into the store today threw him headfirst into it, making him newly aware of how desperately he's missed what used to be there. Even now, he knows they won't get that back, not really, not exactly; that's undoubtedly for the best, given how wrong everything went before. He keeps thinking, though, that that doesn't mean it can't be anything. Trying to figure out what that might be is a strange, daunting prospect, but it's still better than keeping something he once loved so much at arm's length. At least now, he might — they both might — have a chance to love it again, maybe even to rediscover that together.

"It wasn't either of ours anyway," he murmurs, apologetic, still curled as close to J as he can manage with the two of them sitting here. "I didn't still have it. Once it wasn't yours... wasn't ours... it wasn't mine, either." It's not the same, but it's not totally different, either, or at least he believes it isn't. His hand clasping J's, steady but gentler, he lets out a long, slow sigh. "How could I love something that tore us apart?"

Maybe it's not fair. There were other factors, certainly, and it isn't as if music itself could have acted with any intention. It was the two of them making countless missteps, though he suspects they would point to different ones, both putting more of the blame on themselves, if asked. Music is where those first cracks appeared, though, at least the first ones he could see. Losing J just drove him further from it. In the time they've been here, he's been chasing after what it used to feel like, the way he used to love it. Today, just now, is the closest he's gotten.

"I wish I'd known how to help you," he adds, quieter still, trying to keep himself steady. J seems like he might be about to shake clear out of his skin; S can only try to counter that by being here. "I wish... I don't know."