That, at least, J understands. "I know," he murmurs, hand rubbing gently against S's back. "Me too." He misses how it felt when they played together, and how it felt when he was a kid, when he played because he loved it, because he was good at it and it made him happy. Made him satisfied, even if he was unhappy, as he so often was. There was comfort in music, and he misses that, too, those days when it brought him peace instead of anxiety.

He misses being able to talk freely about it, too. He hasn't felt like he could for a long while, because he knows S doesn't, and it feels wrong. When it comes up, he's usually already upset, which makes it difficult to get everything he means across, especially when he's in the process of figuring it out for himself. "I didn't," he says abruptly. Sometimes stumbling through it and blurting it out is the only way for him to make any sense of his own feelings. "I didn't want to either. For a long time. It... it was all wrong. Not wanting it felt wrong. Wanting it felt wrong. There was... it was too complicated. It still is, and it hurts, and it's confusing, and — and I was relieved. For months, not feeling the urge to play, I — I thought it would be okay. And that was horrible."

He's not sure that makes any sense either. It's hard to explain when it seems to him like all his feelings contradict themselves. "I wish I hadn't made it so complicated. It used to just... be right."