J nods, disentangling their hands just enough to free one, lifting it to S's cheek. Brushing his knuckles along that familiar curve, sweeping away tears, he leans in to kiss him, brief but utterly tender. His chest is tight, knots of old hurts pressing painfully against his lungs, but he's pretty sure all of this is a good thing in spite of that. It's just that it's impossible to talk about these things without brushing up against the scars and bruises of the past, or pulling apart something he didn't realize was wound up just so.
He can't pretend that what went wrong in him was just ambition. He was ambitious for a long time before he began to unravel, and he doesn't think that was intrinsically wrong or harmful. It was when things in his head went awry and he lost sight of the things that mattered most that he fell apart, when he let his ambition mingle with his insecurities and his fear of being insignificant swept away the heart of why he loved music to begin with. The heart of music's power is precisely this, the way he could write something that could make S feel a little better. How something of his could be someone's favorite song — his favorite person's favorite song, for that matter. Whether he ever had an audience or not, whether his name was known, none of it would signify if his music didn't say something, move someone. But he got so caught up in trying to prove he could do that, he stopped being able to. It's hard, he thinks, to write profoundly about things he'd never experienced, and he let himself think those were the things that became art. In truth, he sees now, nothing could be more powerful than writing something to coax light out of grief. He spent too long in shadows to understand it then.
"I was stupid," he says softly. "I let myself forget why I was so proud of that. This is what matters, how it makes us feel. How I could make you a little happier, how free I felt when I played. We shared it because it made it even better when we did. I was a fool to see it any other way." Still close, he tips his head forward again, kissing S's cheek this time, his hand cupping S's jaw. "It's my favorite thing I wrote, too. Just for you."
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He can't pretend that what went wrong in him was just ambition. He was ambitious for a long time before he began to unravel, and he doesn't think that was intrinsically wrong or harmful. It was when things in his head went awry and he lost sight of the things that mattered most that he fell apart, when he let his ambition mingle with his insecurities and his fear of being insignificant swept away the heart of why he loved music to begin with. The heart of music's power is precisely this, the way he could write something that could make S feel a little better. How something of his could be someone's favorite song — his favorite person's favorite song, for that matter. Whether he ever had an audience or not, whether his name was known, none of it would signify if his music didn't say something, move someone. But he got so caught up in trying to prove he could do that, he stopped being able to. It's hard, he thinks, to write profoundly about things he'd never experienced, and he let himself think those were the things that became art. In truth, he sees now, nothing could be more powerful than writing something to coax light out of grief. He spent too long in shadows to understand it then.
"I was stupid," he says softly. "I let myself forget why I was so proud of that. This is what matters, how it makes us feel. How I could make you a little happier, how free I felt when I played. We shared it because it made it even better when we did. I was a fool to see it any other way." Still close, he tips his head forward again, kissing S's cheek this time, his hand cupping S's jaw. "It's my favorite thing I wrote, too. Just for you."