Stupid as he feels for crying over this, S blinks through his tears as he looks up at J. There's no sense in trying to hide it, after all, and it's not like J isn't a mess, too. Still, it's easier to find it understandable in someone else than in himself, easier even now to tell himself that he doesn't need to play more than he already has been. Like he said a moment ago, or at least what he meant to say, though he's not sure this came out right, either, he has this job that gives him a chance to spend some time playing the piano, and that's all he really needs. He was never as ambitious as J was, anyway. Even when he wanted to be great, it was because he wanted them to have that together. Now, it isn't as if he's shut himself off from it entirely. He's just not sure how much he's been getting in his own way, how much his not wanting more is because he hasn't let himself, thinking it would be easier for both of them that way, as if anything involving music would have been easy after all they had to go through.
"I don't know what I want," he admits, turning his head for a moment to try to dry one cheek against his shoulder. "Other than you. As long as I have you... I could never touch a piano again and I'd be alright with that." It shouldn't have to be a choice for either of them, he thinks — it never should have been in the first place — but it's simply no contest for him. He would take J before music always, no matter what. "But I really thought that... it would help if I walked away from it. If you didn't have to deal with hearing me play when you weren't." He huffs out a breath, ducks his head again, cheeks a bit flushed. "If I'd never gotten serious about it in the first place."
Apologetic, he shrugs, giving J's shirt a little tug. His head is still a mess, full of too many things he could say but doesn't quite know how to. What he has said, though, he means. There's been an empty space for him that piano once filled, and he hasn't known how else to fill it, what other calling he might possibly have, but it's an emptiness he can bear. The space that was left behind in J's absence, he couldn't. "I wouldn't know how to let myself want it again. Or how to figure out if I did."
no subject
"I don't know what I want," he admits, turning his head for a moment to try to dry one cheek against his shoulder. "Other than you. As long as I have you... I could never touch a piano again and I'd be alright with that." It shouldn't have to be a choice for either of them, he thinks — it never should have been in the first place — but it's simply no contest for him. He would take J before music always, no matter what. "But I really thought that... it would help if I walked away from it. If you didn't have to deal with hearing me play when you weren't." He huffs out a breath, ducks his head again, cheeks a bit flushed. "If I'd never gotten serious about it in the first place."
Apologetic, he shrugs, giving J's shirt a little tug. His head is still a mess, full of too many things he could say but doesn't quite know how to. What he has said, though, he means. There's been an empty space for him that piano once filled, and he hasn't known how else to fill it, what other calling he might possibly have, but it's an emptiness he can bear. The space that was left behind in J's absence, he couldn't. "I wouldn't know how to let myself want it again. Or how to figure out if I did."