Over and over again, J finds himself frightened, and it frustrates him so much. There's nothing to be afraid of when it comes to things like this. He knows now, in a way he didn't before he came here, that S would never reject him or push him away or think less of him. He knows that, on some level, he's only afraid because he knows how badly he's behaved in the past when it's been his turn to step up and provide support, to listen and encourage and accept. It's his own behavior he imagines, not S's, and still he gets scared, nervous when he says things like this. It's something else, he thinks, that was taken from him by whatever happened to make him the way he is. Wanting things — admitting to wanting things — can be terrifying when he's seen how destructive that can be.
So it takes him a moment to look up, though he can feel S trying to meet his eyes, part of him afraid to be told no, he fucked things up too much to be allowed that, and afraid, too, that he'll start crying if he's told yes. What he finds instead, as he looks up at S, is relief, an awe that flutters through his chest. That's not what makes him tear up this time. It's seeing the way S's eyes go glassy when he says that, the way his control wavers, how earnestly he says that.
He loved music in so many permutations, played alone or together, with S or his mother, for an audience or with no one else to hear. He wrote his story with these keys rather than those of a typewriter, and he let himself become powerful, just as he let himself be vulnerable, too, in ways he's only ever otherwise been with S. His relationship with music shaped him long before he went to school for it, long before the Gloria Artis and the professor. There have been other times, he thinks, that he enjoyed it as much as he did with S, but very few of them and almost entirely with his mother.
And even then, thinking on it now, he knows that there's more to it than that. "I know," he murmurs, nodding, squeezing S's hand in return. He lifts their hands together, presses a kiss to S's knuckles. "That was... that was the proudest I ever was, I think. The happiest. When I wrote that song and... and you liked it. And you smiled when I knew that was hard, and I realized, ah, I have that power too. I can make music that means something too, that makes things better for him, just for a moment. That was the best."
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So it takes him a moment to look up, though he can feel S trying to meet his eyes, part of him afraid to be told no, he fucked things up too much to be allowed that, and afraid, too, that he'll start crying if he's told yes. What he finds instead, as he looks up at S, is relief, an awe that flutters through his chest. That's not what makes him tear up this time. It's seeing the way S's eyes go glassy when he says that, the way his control wavers, how earnestly he says that.
He loved music in so many permutations, played alone or together, with S or his mother, for an audience or with no one else to hear. He wrote his story with these keys rather than those of a typewriter, and he let himself become powerful, just as he let himself be vulnerable, too, in ways he's only ever otherwise been with S. His relationship with music shaped him long before he went to school for it, long before the Gloria Artis and the professor. There have been other times, he thinks, that he enjoyed it as much as he did with S, but very few of them and almost entirely with his mother.
And even then, thinking on it now, he knows that there's more to it than that. "I know," he murmurs, nodding, squeezing S's hand in return. He lifts their hands together, presses a kiss to S's knuckles. "That was... that was the proudest I ever was, I think. The happiest. When I wrote that song and... and you liked it. And you smiled when I knew that was hard, and I realized, ah, I have that power too. I can make music that means something too, that makes things better for him, just for a moment. That was the best."