J closes his eyes, leaning into S's hand. Shaky as he feels, it helps, the gentleness of his touch helping to steady him. Maybe this, like so much else, would be easier if they talked about it more, but there are so many reasons they don't. He thought it was better to leave that unchanged, at least for now, to give S room to do things the way he wants without J interfering. This is different, though, not at all what was in his own head. He assumed S stopped because he was worried he would act irrationally or become cruel. To be fair, J supposes, he probably is being irrational. He hadn't thought S stopped to keep him from feeling left out. That it only achieved the opposite is something he needs to explain, he knows that. It's just that none of this is simple or straightforward or comfortable.
"It's not," he whispers, his voice rough, his throat too tight. "I miss it. When you're there and I play — I feel it, too. How unfair it is that I do while you sit and listen." He knows S has this place. He does. But it's hard to remember when he's never seen it before now, when that's only been a passing idea. He knew he missed the fact of their sharing music, but he didn't understand how keenly until he could hear S play again, just for a few delicate moments. He swallows hard, taking a slow, deep breath. "Just because you play doesn't mean I can't. I'm just... nervous."
So far, it's been fine, but he's also been cautious, playing only in public places. He doesn't try to write. He doesn't seek inspiration. He plays what he knows. Until he feels steadier, more certain of himself, that's best, he feels. Maybe one day he'll try something new — improvise or get sheet music for a song he's never played. But it hasn't actually been all that long since he came here, since all the crimes he committed; it's been even less time since he found himself drifting back into alternating numbness and despair. When he can't be entirely or even mostly certain of his own mental state, it's better, he knows it is, if he's cautious, letting himself rediscover his abilities and his comfort bit by bit.
He loved music long before he knew S. He'll love S long after he plays his last note. They never had to be at odds. He chose that. It's a mistake he never wants to make again, and if that means S never plays for him, he has to accept it. But S has never stood in his way, not once, not with this. He never would. The same can't be said of J and he knows it. He sniffs, blinking hard, wanting to be able to see S. Unless he lets go and wipes his eyes, though, that isn't happening, and he doesn't want to let go.
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"It's not," he whispers, his voice rough, his throat too tight. "I miss it. When you're there and I play — I feel it, too. How unfair it is that I do while you sit and listen." He knows S has this place. He does. But it's hard to remember when he's never seen it before now, when that's only been a passing idea. He knew he missed the fact of their sharing music, but he didn't understand how keenly until he could hear S play again, just for a few delicate moments. He swallows hard, taking a slow, deep breath. "Just because you play doesn't mean I can't. I'm just... nervous."
So far, it's been fine, but he's also been cautious, playing only in public places. He doesn't try to write. He doesn't seek inspiration. He plays what he knows. Until he feels steadier, more certain of himself, that's best, he feels. Maybe one day he'll try something new — improvise or get sheet music for a song he's never played. But it hasn't actually been all that long since he came here, since all the crimes he committed; it's been even less time since he found himself drifting back into alternating numbness and despair. When he can't be entirely or even mostly certain of his own mental state, it's better, he knows it is, if he's cautious, letting himself rediscover his abilities and his comfort bit by bit.
He loved music long before he knew S. He'll love S long after he plays his last note. They never had to be at odds. He chose that. It's a mistake he never wants to make again, and if that means S never plays for him, he has to accept it. But S has never stood in his way, not once, not with this. He never would. The same can't be said of J and he knows it. He sniffs, blinking hard, wanting to be able to see S. Unless he lets go and wipes his eyes, though, that isn't happening, and he doesn't want to let go.