In the span of one quick moment, several things happen. First, the sound of a voice, any voice, cutting through the soft sound of the piano startles S, causing him to inhale abruptly. It isn't just any voice, though, and he knows it. That more than anything else is what prompts the rest of his response. He stills as he lifts his head, hands frozen and hovering over the piano keys for a moment before he draws them back, fingers curling in toward his palms. It's stupid. He shouldn't feel caught, like he's been doing something he isn't supposed to. He has, in fact, told J that he plays at work sometimes, and J has been nothing but encouraging even when S has insisted that he doesn't feel about it the way he used to.

That much is still true. Part of why he plays, when he plays, is because he misses the way he used to feel about it. Of course, he still thinks it's better, too, that he doesn't have that drive anymore, meaning that music can't come between them again, but there's still an empty space where it used to be. And he's fine with that, because he has so much now that he never expected, but it was such a big part of his life for so long, and then it wasn't anymore. Of course it's strange to be without it.

As convenient as his job is for giving him a chance to sit at a piano from time to time, he really didn't think that he would wind up playing in front of J, despite his having offered for J to come here to play in private. And immediately, he feels guilty for that on top of everything else, because he doesn't want to hide anything from the person he loves and doesn't want to feel like he has to, but it did so much damage before. If J plays again, and S wants to support him in that if he does, it should be without the constant comparison that plagued them that last while back in Seoul. It should be his alone, even if S loved more than he can say when it was theirs.

"Me too," he says quietly, still and otherwise at a loss for words. "I didn't know you were coming by. We'll close up soon."