This past year, S really has been convinced that that couldn't be true. Really, he started to feel it long before then. As piano started coming between him and J, his efforts to recapture what seemed to be slipping away from them only ever making things worse, S wanted to show J somehow that it didn't have to be a choice. Instead, he wound up with neither music nor his boyfriend, only a gradually increasing sense that he should have walked away from piano sooner. It would have been worth it to be with J. It has been here, such that he hasn't really thought twice about it. Even when it's hurt, even when he's missed it, nothing has ever made him question that choice. The idea now that he could have both if he wants to — he has no way of being able to determine if he does, so convinced has he been that he couldn't.
He doesn't want to talk in circles, though, or to make J feel guiltier. Emphasizing just how certain he was that that wasn't a possibility seems likely only to do both. The decision he made wasn't forced on him, after all. He chose it for himself, and he doesn't want J to think that he blames him for it at all. S knows better now. All they can do is go forward from here, whatever that winds up looking like.
First, for now, he thinks it means being as honest as he can. Leaning his forehead against J's in turn, S takes a long, slow breath, just savoring their closeness for a moment. They've sat just like this so many times, tucked close together on a piano bench, angled toward each other. If absolutely nothing else, it feels right to be here again now. They wouldn't have needed it, but that doesn't mean it isn't nice to have it.
"I don't know what I want," he admits, brushing back a strand of J's hair, anything to keep idly touching him. "I don't know what it would look like now if I did have both. But you're all I need, too. That's the part that really matters." It isn't as if he's lost music entirely, after all. He plays at work, the very thing that started them having this conversation in the first place. Really, he's not sure he could stomach pursuing the career he once wanted if J wasn't doing so, too. Just the thought of it makes him feel like he would be stealing something. Maybe that will fade, though. Maybe this can be something for both of them again. "I love you. So much."
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He doesn't want to talk in circles, though, or to make J feel guiltier. Emphasizing just how certain he was that that wasn't a possibility seems likely only to do both. The decision he made wasn't forced on him, after all. He chose it for himself, and he doesn't want J to think that he blames him for it at all. S knows better now. All they can do is go forward from here, whatever that winds up looking like.
First, for now, he thinks it means being as honest as he can. Leaning his forehead against J's in turn, S takes a long, slow breath, just savoring their closeness for a moment. They've sat just like this so many times, tucked close together on a piano bench, angled toward each other. If absolutely nothing else, it feels right to be here again now. They wouldn't have needed it, but that doesn't mean it isn't nice to have it.
"I don't know what I want," he admits, brushing back a strand of J's hair, anything to keep idly touching him. "I don't know what it would look like now if I did have both. But you're all I need, too. That's the part that really matters." It isn't as if he's lost music entirely, after all. He plays at work, the very thing that started them having this conversation in the first place. Really, he's not sure he could stomach pursuing the career he once wanted if J wasn't doing so, too. Just the thought of it makes him feel like he would be stealing something. Maybe that will fade, though. Maybe this can be something for both of them again. "I love you. So much."