"And I thought it was obvious," J says, self-deprecatingly exasperated. "I'm so stupid." It's not like there's ever been a point where absolutely everything was just understood. Even at the best points of their relationship, they come at things from such different directions sometimes. It's ridiculous of him to have thought something this important was clear and understood. But all of it hurts so very much, and he didn't want to touch that, to put them in a place to have to feel that pain so intensely by discussing it. "That's what I meant. What I always meant. That I — I understood. Why you wouldn't want to play for me anymore."
Because last time S did, J tried to kill him. Because, before that, it infuriated him, the sound of S playing leaving him on edge, and he didn't hesitate to make that clear — because, even then, he had the sense that something precious and vital had slipped from his grasp and that it was his own fault, that two of the things he loved best in the world would never be the same. He didn't know how to handle that at the time, let his fear turn to fury because it was easier to bear. And now, thinking he was doing better, he made the same mistake, turning away from the fear because he didn't know what to do with it. It's a mess, but he really did think S understood. It was fair, it would have been entirely reasonable, if that had been the case. He wouldn't have wanted to play for himself, had their places been reversed. Even putting aside the concern that J might somehow be moved to murder again, he knew he'd changed how it felt, how their connection to the piano was colored. He couldn't ask to share it with him when he'd taken away what there was to share.
Hand slipping higher up S's back, he presses him close, turning his head to try and kiss S's cheek, catching his hair instead. It wasn't fair of him, he thinks. Though he still believes it would be completely rational for S to feel that way, he was wrong to assume it. S has always been kinder to him than he has to himself. "I thought it would be... uncomfortable," he murmurs into S's hair, "at best." He couldn't have handled it. He can't, which is precisely why he started crying to begin with. To see the ease they shared so utterly evaporated hurts. He doesn't even know what exactly is happening now, what they're figuring out, only that they are, and his heart is still aching, afraid. He doesn't want to push S into making some kind of a choice, thinking this means he has to play for him now or that he has to stop. He doesn't want to ask for either, not ever.
no subject
Because last time S did, J tried to kill him. Because, before that, it infuriated him, the sound of S playing leaving him on edge, and he didn't hesitate to make that clear — because, even then, he had the sense that something precious and vital had slipped from his grasp and that it was his own fault, that two of the things he loved best in the world would never be the same. He didn't know how to handle that at the time, let his fear turn to fury because it was easier to bear. And now, thinking he was doing better, he made the same mistake, turning away from the fear because he didn't know what to do with it. It's a mess, but he really did think S understood. It was fair, it would have been entirely reasonable, if that had been the case. He wouldn't have wanted to play for himself, had their places been reversed. Even putting aside the concern that J might somehow be moved to murder again, he knew he'd changed how it felt, how their connection to the piano was colored. He couldn't ask to share it with him when he'd taken away what there was to share.
Hand slipping higher up S's back, he presses him close, turning his head to try and kiss S's cheek, catching his hair instead. It wasn't fair of him, he thinks. Though he still believes it would be completely rational for S to feel that way, he was wrong to assume it. S has always been kinder to him than he has to himself. "I thought it would be... uncomfortable," he murmurs into S's hair, "at best." He couldn't have handled it. He can't, which is precisely why he started crying to begin with. To see the ease they shared so utterly evaporated hurts. He doesn't even know what exactly is happening now, what they're figuring out, only that they are, and his heart is still aching, afraid. He doesn't want to push S into making some kind of a choice, thinking this means he has to play for him now or that he has to stop. He doesn't want to ask for either, not ever.