Even now, with everything that's happened this evening, S isn't expecting J to say that. For a moment, he goes still, as if trying to be sure he's heard right, drawing in a small, audible breath, but he nods immediately after. He doesn't want to give J the wrong idea; he doesn't want to start thinking too much about what happened the last time they played together, a wound that's never fully healed. J apologized for it that first time they went to Kagura, but S already knew that he was sorry, and he wouldn't have needed to hear it. That may even have been the least fucked up thing that happened that horrible night, but it's stayed with him all the same, how it felt like such a definitive rejection — not just in the present, but of their past, of all the meaning with which that song was imbued and all the times they'd played together before.
Of course he wants to change that, deeply earnest as he tilts his head to try to catch J's gaze again. "I'd really like that," he whispers, thumb stroking the back of J's hand where their fingers are still entwined. Just the idea of a next time, the implicit, quiet promise there, is remarkably powerful. Having a next time that they could share is even more so, one more thing that he really thought he would never have again. They've already been wrong about that a lot of times, in a lot of ways, but for J to play again at all was such a huge step in itself. S never considered the possibility of more than that — that J might want to hear him, might want to play with him. "I never loved playing as much as I did when I played with you."
He's been remarkably composed this past while, trying to keep it together for J's sake, if nothing else. It feels phenomenally stupid, then, that it's his own words that make his breath catch in his throat and his eyes sting. That's what's been missing, though, at least in part. He loved it, but he loved it most because it was theirs. Of course, with that piece of it taken away, it's been hollow. Of course it aches to have even just a tiny part of that back.
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Of course he wants to change that, deeply earnest as he tilts his head to try to catch J's gaze again. "I'd really like that," he whispers, thumb stroking the back of J's hand where their fingers are still entwined. Just the idea of a next time, the implicit, quiet promise there, is remarkably powerful. Having a next time that they could share is even more so, one more thing that he really thought he would never have again. They've already been wrong about that a lot of times, in a lot of ways, but for J to play again at all was such a huge step in itself. S never considered the possibility of more than that — that J might want to hear him, might want to play with him. "I never loved playing as much as I did when I played with you."
He's been remarkably composed this past while, trying to keep it together for J's sake, if nothing else. It feels phenomenally stupid, then, that it's his own words that make his breath catch in his throat and his eyes sting. That's what's been missing, though, at least in part. He loved it, but he loved it most because it was theirs. Of course, with that piece of it taken away, it's been hollow. Of course it aches to have even just a tiny part of that back.