Immediately, S feels certain that he's said the wrong thing, though he doesn't know how he could have when he's barely said anything at all. Still, it feels wrong, it always does, when there's such awkwardness and distance between them. They spent so long, years of their lives, sitting at pianos together, even when they weren't both playing. He sat beside J at Kagura some months ago, and he was glad to do so, but it seemed somehow different when it was J taking that step for the first time in so long, when S already knew he wouldn't so much as touch the keys. It's different when it's him. Things have changed so much, and he knows it; it's not like it was back in Seoul, when his very existence seemed to set J off, when he couldn't play or write without it somehow being made into a competition. Even so, he doesn't want even to put pieces in place that might risk them winding up there again.

He doesn't want, either, to act like this is some secret, to let it drive a wedge between them in another way. He lets out a soft breath, teeth pressing to his lip, apologetic. "No, you don't need to be sorry," he says. "I'm glad you're here. Really." It's sweet, J stopping in just to walk home with him. Had he not chosen perhaps the worst possible moment to sit and play for a while, he would be thrilled to see his boyfriend here, maybe even introduce him to any other coworkers around. There's no reason for that not to be the case now.

J may have said that he doesn't have to stop, but S lets his hands drop to his lap a moment later, shifting slightly so he can better face J. The urge to beckon him over, to inch sideways enough for J to fit beside him, is so overwhelmingly strong that it hurts, but he ignores it as best he can. If anything, he should move and let J play, the way he offered months ago. "I would love to walk home with you. You just surprised me, that's all."