This, too, seems wrong. J didn't do anything except stop by so they could walk home together, the gesture thoughtful in the way that S sometimes wonders if J even realizes he is. Instead they've wound up here, and whatever J says, S sees no way that isn't on him. Had he not chosen that precise fucking moment to get some piano-playing out of his system, they would be smiling and getting ready to head home. Even that doesn't matter half as much as the fact that just about anything would probably be better than this, with J suddenly seeming impossibly far away, though the distance between them is only that of a few feet. It would be funny if it weren't so deeply sad. Music was one of the things that first brought them together. Now it's one of the only things that comes between them, this distance one he doesn't know how to close, this problem one he doesn't know how to solve.
That helpless sensation isn't new, but he hates it as much as he ever did, shifting his weight for a moment, weighing his words. "But you didn't do anything," he finally murmurs, because it's the one thing that keeps running through his head. He almost goes a step further with it, even, pointing out that J was thinking of him, while he was only thinking of himself, but he reminds himself again that that can't be right. J gave him sheet music for Christmas. That one night in bed that they talked about it is mostly hazy from the sleep deprivation and all the crying that took place, but he remembers how distraught J sounded saying that he felt like he'd taken this from him. J clearly wouldn't have wanted him to give it up. Except now that they're here, with S having played in front of him for only a moment and entirely by accident, and something is already so off-kilter. He doesn't see how that could possibly be for any other reason but him.
"Can we —" He wants to talk this through, to figure out what's going on. He wants to be back at home, where they don't have to worry about anything or anyone else. Neither of those is something he can simply make happen, though, and he frowns again for a moment, apologetic. "I have a coworker in the back. Let me text her and tell her just to leave, alright? Then maybe we can... sit for a few minutes, or something?" He takes a step closer. This distance won't close itself, and he can't see J look like this and just stay away. "Please?"
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That helpless sensation isn't new, but he hates it as much as he ever did, shifting his weight for a moment, weighing his words. "But you didn't do anything," he finally murmurs, because it's the one thing that keeps running through his head. He almost goes a step further with it, even, pointing out that J was thinking of him, while he was only thinking of himself, but he reminds himself again that that can't be right. J gave him sheet music for Christmas. That one night in bed that they talked about it is mostly hazy from the sleep deprivation and all the crying that took place, but he remembers how distraught J sounded saying that he felt like he'd taken this from him. J clearly wouldn't have wanted him to give it up. Except now that they're here, with S having played in front of him for only a moment and entirely by accident, and something is already so off-kilter. He doesn't see how that could possibly be for any other reason but him.
"Can we —" He wants to talk this through, to figure out what's going on. He wants to be back at home, where they don't have to worry about anything or anyone else. Neither of those is something he can simply make happen, though, and he frowns again for a moment, apologetic. "I have a coworker in the back. Let me text her and tell her just to leave, alright? Then maybe we can... sit for a few minutes, or something?" He takes a step closer. This distance won't close itself, and he can't see J look like this and just stay away. "Please?"