"No," J says quickly, shaking his head, frustrated to find that his voice sounds rough, his throat dry. He refuses to let this get worse. If he cries over this, he'll be furious. He doesn't get to be upset about this. It's how it is, it's how it needs to be, and that's true because of the things he's done and the choices he's made. He behaved terribly long before he left the studio, and things only got worse after. He ruined this all on his own. He doesn't want to make it harder on S than it already is. He wanted S to be able to play if that was what he wanted. That it's no longer theirs doesn't mean it can't still be something they both love. It's too complicated for J to love it the way he used to, and of course that's true for S, too. He has to let it go.

"No," he says again, swallowing hard, trying to soften his voice, his words, "not today. Maybe next time." He might have, he thinks. He misses it again. He's been keeping his distance, returning slowly and only in brief gasps of time, but he'd like to play. Under different circumstances, he thinks he would have. But now it feels all jagged and wrong, and there's too much grief in his heart and in his throat for the things he's killed, not only the people. He couldn't do it now. It wouldn't be right, sliding onto the bench where S has been sitting, playing the piano he played, knowing S won't continue in front of him. For so long, the sight and sound of S playing stung like a personal insult, left him so bitter, but this is a different kind of wound. Before he let jealousy overcome him, the sight of S at the piano made him so happy. The warmth he once felt, the attraction and adoration — for just a moment here, he had some measure of that back, but that's all it was, a moment, a measure, a ghost of the past. He can't revive that.

He draws in a deep breath and shrugs, glancing around the store. "Can I help? Is there something I can do?"