J opens his mouth to answers, then pauses, making himself actually think about it first. His gaze darts away, as if looking elsewhere might prompt some other part of his brain to function better, willing himself to come up with the answer that will work out in spite of all his worries. Part of him, now that he's come this far, thinks it might be better to wait after all — not very long, just a week, enough time to let himself settle down. But then, he might only get wound up instead, he thinks. More time means more thinking. S is good at helping with that, but he can't be home with J all the time, and he can't stay up all night. It was a disaster even before he had a job.
"This week," he says, tentative, looking back at S. Uncertain though his voice may be, he's determined, mouth set in a small, firm line even as he presses S's hands again. "Or I'll think about it too much first. It's better to do it soon since I've made up my mind. And if I change my mind again, we can do it later, but I — I don't wait to put it off and decide I can't do it."
He wants this back. He's gotten so much back that he thought he'd never have again, and he feels rather greedy for wanting to add this to the list, but he didn't get as far as he did — before it all fell spectacularly apart — without demanding more and pushing himself. Their happiness was taken from them by circumstance, by the professor, by his own warped thoughts, and now they're clawing it back. He won't give this up altogether without trying when they've regained so much already. It's not like he wants to go back to how things were — when he can see through the doubt and the hurt and the frustration with himself, he knows they are, in fact, better and stronger even than they were before, and he's happy with that, proud even. But he doesn't think they should have to give up things they like, things that meant something to them, because of things that are gone or that he's worked to improve. They've conquered death and time, madness and mourning, and no small amount of trauma; they can have sex in a way he thought they couldn't again and he can play the piano without panicking, more or less, and they understand each other a little better all the time, something he didn't know was possible. They can do this too. He can play for S and S can play for him, and perhaps they'll be able to play together, the way they did when they were just kids, falling in love. If that means he frets for a couple days and battles his anxiety all the way to this bench, he'll do it.
A moment later, the fierceness dies away a bit, his nose wrinkling up, rueful. "If there's a chance, at least, for me to come here without it causing any trouble." They'd survive alright for a bit without S working, but he doesn't want to jeopardize this job even so. It helps them both, he thinks, for S to have something to do, for them to have a bit more financial security, and for him to have some space during the day.
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"This week," he says, tentative, looking back at S. Uncertain though his voice may be, he's determined, mouth set in a small, firm line even as he presses S's hands again. "Or I'll think about it too much first. It's better to do it soon since I've made up my mind. And if I change my mind again, we can do it later, but I — I don't wait to put it off and decide I can't do it."
He wants this back. He's gotten so much back that he thought he'd never have again, and he feels rather greedy for wanting to add this to the list, but he didn't get as far as he did — before it all fell spectacularly apart — without demanding more and pushing himself. Their happiness was taken from them by circumstance, by the professor, by his own warped thoughts, and now they're clawing it back. He won't give this up altogether without trying when they've regained so much already. It's not like he wants to go back to how things were — when he can see through the doubt and the hurt and the frustration with himself, he knows they are, in fact, better and stronger even than they were before, and he's happy with that, proud even. But he doesn't think they should have to give up things they like, things that meant something to them, because of things that are gone or that he's worked to improve. They've conquered death and time, madness and mourning, and no small amount of trauma; they can have sex in a way he thought they couldn't again and he can play the piano without panicking, more or less, and they understand each other a little better all the time, something he didn't know was possible. They can do this too. He can play for S and S can play for him, and perhaps they'll be able to play together, the way they did when they were just kids, falling in love. If that means he frets for a couple days and battles his anxiety all the way to this bench, he'll do it.
A moment later, the fierceness dies away a bit, his nose wrinkling up, rueful. "If there's a chance, at least, for me to come here without it causing any trouble." They'd survive alright for a bit without S working, but he doesn't want to jeopardize this job even so. It helps them both, he thinks, for S to have something to do, for them to have a bit more financial security, and for him to have some space during the day.