None of this is right. It could just be how horrible it feels to think that at all about something that used to be incredibly right for them, but everything seems so terribly off-kilter, and S still doesn't know what to do about it. He can't fix this. No matter how hard he tries, he can't undo any of it either — can't go back and give himself something other than piano to focus on, can't prevent all that jealousy from taking root within J, can't take back the things that J did in service of the music. He can't bring back his own love of it, either. Although he's tried, he also isn't sure he would want to succeed. Over and over, he comes back to the thought that it would just feel wrong for it to be only his and not J's anymore, and that's the piece he struggles to put into words. With as different as things are now from the way they were back in Seoul as their relationship splintered apart, it isn't that he expects J to grow angry or resentful again. He just doesn't see how it wouldn't just come between them.
"Fuck," he mumbles, at a loss for a moment. Despite the fact that some of what they're saying is the same, it feels like they're talking about different things. He's not sure how to express it, though, or how to offer any kind of reassurance when it's at least true that the way J was about S's playing before changed things. S doesn't hold a grudge, but it would have been impossible not to have his perspective altered by that somewhat.
He takes another deep breath, letting it out heavily, trying to remain composed if only because they're still at his place of work, the front door unlocked, even if he doubts anyone will come in. The setting alone makes this inherently awkward, but he's not sure it would have come up any other way. He doesn't play anywhere else, and aside from when he's tried to gently encourage J to play, he doesn't really talk about it, either. "It's not — that I don't want to," he tries, frowning deeply, a crease in his brow, just the sight of J in tears making it that much harder for him to keep it together. "It just doesn't seem fair. You barely let yourself play, and... I want you to feel like you can again, if you want to. I don't want to get in the way of that. Or... show off that I'm playing while you're not." He looks at J, quietly pleading. "I'm not saying it right."
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"Fuck," he mumbles, at a loss for a moment. Despite the fact that some of what they're saying is the same, it feels like they're talking about different things. He's not sure how to express it, though, or how to offer any kind of reassurance when it's at least true that the way J was about S's playing before changed things. S doesn't hold a grudge, but it would have been impossible not to have his perspective altered by that somewhat.
He takes another deep breath, letting it out heavily, trying to remain composed if only because they're still at his place of work, the front door unlocked, even if he doubts anyone will come in. The setting alone makes this inherently awkward, but he's not sure it would have come up any other way. He doesn't play anywhere else, and aside from when he's tried to gently encourage J to play, he doesn't really talk about it, either. "It's not — that I don't want to," he tries, frowning deeply, a crease in his brow, just the sight of J in tears making it that much harder for him to keep it together. "It just doesn't seem fair. You barely let yourself play, and... I want you to feel like you can again, if you want to. I don't want to get in the way of that. Or... show off that I'm playing while you're not." He looks at J, quietly pleading. "I'm not saying it right."