Guilt tugs at J so sharply that, for a moment, his breath catches and feels like it won't come, leaving him with the ridiculous impulse to turn and leave. He knows it wouldn't help — would really just make everything worse — but it's there all the same, the thought that it would have been better if he hadn't come here. He couldn't have known what he'd interrupt, but maybe he should have. Maybe he ought to have expected that it was, at the least, a possibility, that he should have told S he was on the way. It hurts to see S sitting there, pulling back, pulling away from the music because of him.
"I know," he says, shrugging slightly, and takes a careful step forward. He doesn't want to keep so much distance; it feels wrong. At the same time, he feels like he ought to go slowly, like he might spook S if he's too quick. "Sorry, I should have texted. I just..." He exhales sharply, giving S a tiny, crooked smile. "Thought I'd walk home with you. I — you don't have to stop." He bites his lip, resisting the urge to offer to leave. It wouldn't help for him to turn and run now, to act like this is something that needs to be avoided. He doesn't want it to be. It's not easy to talk about and it probably never will be, but it was so much a part of their lives for so long. Cutting it out of their lives — it feels a little like leaving S did, like something he thought was the right thing to do that turned out to be terrible for both of them.
"Not — not for my sake," he adds quickly. "You don't have to play either." If S doesn't want to, if he feels uncomfortable with it, J won't push him, but that hurts too. He can't fault S for it, not in the least; that's why it hurts. The fault lies entirely within himself. For S to avoid music around him is utterly reasonable, and that's not something J can undo.
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"I know," he says, shrugging slightly, and takes a careful step forward. He doesn't want to keep so much distance; it feels wrong. At the same time, he feels like he ought to go slowly, like he might spook S if he's too quick. "Sorry, I should have texted. I just..." He exhales sharply, giving S a tiny, crooked smile. "Thought I'd walk home with you. I — you don't have to stop." He bites his lip, resisting the urge to offer to leave. It wouldn't help for him to turn and run now, to act like this is something that needs to be avoided. He doesn't want it to be. It's not easy to talk about and it probably never will be, but it was so much a part of their lives for so long. Cutting it out of their lives — it feels a little like leaving S did, like something he thought was the right thing to do that turned out to be terrible for both of them.
"Not — not for my sake," he adds quickly. "You don't have to play either." If S doesn't want to, if he feels uncomfortable with it, J won't push him, but that hurts too. He can't fault S for it, not in the least; that's why it hurts. The fault lies entirely within himself. For S to avoid music around him is utterly reasonable, and that's not something J can undo.