Everything around music hurts now. That fact alone stings. None of it should be like this. There was a time when it was all that kept him going, when he was small and very nearly alone, when the world knocked him around but he'd grown just big enough to be determined to keep that to himself. It was J's lifeline then, and it feels so fucking wrong that, for a long time, it was the opposite. It's not music's fault he became the way he was. It's not S's fault either. Something inside of J broke, jagged edges scarring everything he touched. And it's wrong that music was part of that, when it should have stayed solace and guide. It's wrong to hurt like this over something that gave him strength, that connected him first to his mother then to his love. Even trying hurts, the hesitant tendrils of wanting brushing up against those nerves, until he's all too aware of the very fact of it, of being afraid of something that used to feel like breathing.
And he knows, deep, deep down, because S has told him this, because he understands now, that this isn't entirely on him. What broke is inside of him, yes, but he was made vulnerable by it, prodded into place, manipulated. It still feels like his fault for not being stronger, for not trying harder, for not loving better. It won't ever be what it was. Even if they somehow got this back, even if he began to play again in earnest, it wouldn't be the same, and he has, again, the wisp of an idea that he's grieving himself. All he was, all he could have been, all they should have had. He lost a lot more than his life back there.
He's gained a lot, too. Bleary though his eyes are, he can see the motion, the shift in the line of S's mouth. His words sting, like everything else, but it's not bad, necessarily. It's just guilt, like everything else, his heart predisposed to it in this moment.
"It's not," he says, a little bit of a whine in his voice. He doesn't know if it's true, exactly. They process things differently, no matter how similar they are in so many ways. And it's true, after all, that S has only ever encouraged him and praised him, while J spent a long time criticizing and going cold. He doesn't think that's what S means; as ever, S seems to be thinking more of how J might feel than of his own pain. Even so, maybe that's the difference deep down. Or maybe it's just J getting mixed up again, confusing his distrust of himself with the idea that S might not trust him either, at least not in this way.
"I don't think it is," he clarifies, sniffling. "I wanted to hear it again." He means it to be a simple statement, but it nearly breaks him, saying it out loud, head bowing as he tries to hold back tears, or at least not start sobbing. "I didn't think I would." It's not so simple, he knows that. Hearing S play won't restore the innocence of their passion or bring back the old ease. But they were so happy once, and he feels awful for missing that when they're happy now, too. It's not like S is hiding something from him. It just feels, even so, like something that once was his is gone, something he foolishly gave away. He hasn't said any of this because it seemed so pointlessly cruel. He has no right to ask S to play for him anymore, and he doesn't want S to feel as if he needs to do so. S can play if and how and when he likes, and J doesn't want his sorrow to get in the way of that, but he knows S. Now he's said this, it'll probably only make things worse.
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And he knows, deep, deep down, because S has told him this, because he understands now, that this isn't entirely on him. What broke is inside of him, yes, but he was made vulnerable by it, prodded into place, manipulated. It still feels like his fault for not being stronger, for not trying harder, for not loving better. It won't ever be what it was. Even if they somehow got this back, even if he began to play again in earnest, it wouldn't be the same, and he has, again, the wisp of an idea that he's grieving himself. All he was, all he could have been, all they should have had. He lost a lot more than his life back there.
He's gained a lot, too. Bleary though his eyes are, he can see the motion, the shift in the line of S's mouth. His words sting, like everything else, but it's not bad, necessarily. It's just guilt, like everything else, his heart predisposed to it in this moment.
"It's not," he says, a little bit of a whine in his voice. He doesn't know if it's true, exactly. They process things differently, no matter how similar they are in so many ways. And it's true, after all, that S has only ever encouraged him and praised him, while J spent a long time criticizing and going cold. He doesn't think that's what S means; as ever, S seems to be thinking more of how J might feel than of his own pain. Even so, maybe that's the difference deep down. Or maybe it's just J getting mixed up again, confusing his distrust of himself with the idea that S might not trust him either, at least not in this way.
"I don't think it is," he clarifies, sniffling. "I wanted to hear it again." He means it to be a simple statement, but it nearly breaks him, saying it out loud, head bowing as he tries to hold back tears, or at least not start sobbing. "I didn't think I would." It's not so simple, he knows that. Hearing S play won't restore the innocence of their passion or bring back the old ease. But they were so happy once, and he feels awful for missing that when they're happy now, too. It's not like S is hiding something from him. It just feels, even so, like something that once was his is gone, something he foolishly gave away. He hasn't said any of this because it seemed so pointlessly cruel. He has no right to ask S to play for him anymore, and he doesn't want S to feel as if he needs to do so. S can play if and how and when he likes, and J doesn't want his sorrow to get in the way of that, but he knows S. Now he's said this, it'll probably only make things worse.