Despite all they've discussed, J has to steel himself for S's response, unsure of what he means until he explains himself. The truth of it hurts, too, but it's better than his instinctive fear, the uncertainty that comes from inside of him, and he's thankful he managed to hold himself together. He trusts S in a way he still doesn't and might never trust himself, but that doesn't always mean much against the weight of irrational fear — not, at least, as much as he knows they both wish it did.

He's busy wishing, too, that S had never had to feel that way, feeling, as always, a little guilty for his role in it, until something about the wording turns on a light in the back of his head. It's familiar, is what it is, and he nods absently before he's pieced together his words. "I think," he says, slow even though he's really thinking out loud, "I'm still doing that." He has to. And the thing is, he doesn't, not really, but if he rushes in all at once — it's frightening and it's too much and he's steadier than he once was by far, but he's still unsure and shaky even on his better days. If he lets it all in, he doesn't know how he'd cope or what he'd do, and he's too afraid to find out, but keeping it all at bay doesn't feel natural either.

"It's a lot," he echoes, nodding again. When he's entirely rational about it, after all, he knows that the piano wasn't the real problem, and so keeping himself apart from music serves little real purpose. But that's worse, actually, much worse, and it's not like the piano helped. "But you can. And you have time. You'll figure it out when you're ready, darling." He hopes he will, too, but, these days, figuring out much of anything feels a long way off.