J feels a pang of guilt at that, realizing he's yet again gotten too caught up in his own hurt to see he was missing the point. It's not about whether or not music caused the rift between them or simply worsened it. That connection existed regardless, and of course S reacted that way, felt it that way. Sniffling, he shifts a little so he can turn toward S, head tucked onto his shoulder. It's frightening, how many ways he's still the same as he was then. He's gotten somewhat better at managing it all, and some of the pressure that made him worse has been taken away, but it's all still there.
"I didn't see it that way," he murmurs. "There was a lot I didn't see. I should have, but..." He sighs, eyes closing tight, and focuses for a moment on what he can feel: the soft warmth of S's breath, the gentle pressure of his thumb against J's skin, the solidness of his shoulder beneath J's cheek and pressed into his side, the way their bodies jut into each other, not awkward as they should be, just right. He's here now, sitting at a piano finer than any he could have ever hoped to own, and what he did then is past. It won't ever go away, but it's over now, and it doesn't matter very much what he should have done. As hard as it is to make himself remember and believe, it really doesn't. He can't change any of it. But S is still here, still real and whole, still loving him, and they're okay. "I couldn't have. I didn't see anything the way it was then. But I knew I was losing... this. I thought it was forever. But it's not, it wasn't, or we wouldn't be here now."
If he'd known back then, he thinks, that there was a version of his future that looked like this — well, doubtless he wouldn't have believed it, for a vast number of reasons, but if he had, if he'd known, this wouldn't have needed to exist at all. But that's the problem, he thinks. Back then, what he thought he knew wasn't real, just a lot of fears both rational and mostly otherwise bundled together into what he thought was true. If he'd been able to see to the actual fact of what was around him, he wouldn't have been so afraid to tell S how afraid he was of everything else. Changing that, being able to talk to S about all of this, even if it's still intensely difficult sometimes, has made all the difference.
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"I didn't see it that way," he murmurs. "There was a lot I didn't see. I should have, but..." He sighs, eyes closing tight, and focuses for a moment on what he can feel: the soft warmth of S's breath, the gentle pressure of his thumb against J's skin, the solidness of his shoulder beneath J's cheek and pressed into his side, the way their bodies jut into each other, not awkward as they should be, just right. He's here now, sitting at a piano finer than any he could have ever hoped to own, and what he did then is past. It won't ever go away, but it's over now, and it doesn't matter very much what he should have done. As hard as it is to make himself remember and believe, it really doesn't. He can't change any of it. But S is still here, still real and whole, still loving him, and they're okay. "I couldn't have. I didn't see anything the way it was then. But I knew I was losing... this. I thought it was forever. But it's not, it wasn't, or we wouldn't be here now."
If he'd known back then, he thinks, that there was a version of his future that looked like this — well, doubtless he wouldn't have believed it, for a vast number of reasons, but if he had, if he'd known, this wouldn't have needed to exist at all. But that's the problem, he thinks. Back then, what he thought he knew wasn't real, just a lot of fears both rational and mostly otherwise bundled together into what he thought was true. If he'd been able to see to the actual fact of what was around him, he wouldn't have been so afraid to tell S how afraid he was of everything else. Changing that, being able to talk to S about all of this, even if it's still intensely difficult sometimes, has made all the difference.