Although he knows it's not J's intention, S can't help how horribly guilty he feels hearing that. He never had any idea that J felt that way, and he knows, on some level, that he had a very good reason to assume the opposite was true, that J wouldn't want to hear him at all. Still, it's hard to think about J carrying that for all these months, both of them not wanting to broach the subject, worried about how the other might feel. Had they discussed it — actually talked it through — they could have realized all of this so much sooner, but it's an understatement to say that it's difficult to talk about. Even now, they're clearly both a mess for trying to do so, and that's with this actually seeming to be a positive development. S doesn't know what it means yet or where they go from here, but it does feel like something isn't quite as broken as he believed it to be. Maybe it will never be what it was for them, and maybe that's actually a good thing, but that doesn't mean they can't get back a little of what they lost.
He does, after all, remember how happy they were, and for such a long time. He just remembers what came after, too, all the bitterness and resentment, all the arguments. It felt like any time he simply played the piano, it was somehow a direct threat to J, or something for J to compare himself unfavorably to, although S never wanted them to be pitted against each other like that. Even compliments felt sharp-edged, intended to wound. The end of that night is a blur, but he remembers J calling him genius with his hands around his throat. And S would be the first one to say that he doesn't want that night to define their relationship now. It was only one night, after all, and they had so many more good times than bad. The bad times were still there, though, and when S still doesn't fully understand what changed or why, he hasn't wanted to risk his playing doing any damage again. If it could only be one of theirs, it should be J's.
The alternative — that it could be both of theirs again, if not in the way it once was — just never seemed possible. Hearing what J says now, though, and the part that he remembers most, brings on a fresh burst of tears, his jaw trembling in a failed attempt to stave them off. "I had no idea," he says, an apology and an explanation both. "I really didn't. I thought it would be help, for you not to have to see or hear me play."
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He does, after all, remember how happy they were, and for such a long time. He just remembers what came after, too, all the bitterness and resentment, all the arguments. It felt like any time he simply played the piano, it was somehow a direct threat to J, or something for J to compare himself unfavorably to, although S never wanted them to be pitted against each other like that. Even compliments felt sharp-edged, intended to wound. The end of that night is a blur, but he remembers J calling him genius with his hands around his throat. And S would be the first one to say that he doesn't want that night to define their relationship now. It was only one night, after all, and they had so many more good times than bad. The bad times were still there, though, and when S still doesn't fully understand what changed or why, he hasn't wanted to risk his playing doing any damage again. If it could only be one of theirs, it should be J's.
The alternative — that it could be both of theirs again, if not in the way it once was — just never seemed possible. Hearing what J says now, though, and the part that he remembers most, brings on a fresh burst of tears, his jaw trembling in a failed attempt to stave them off. "I had no idea," he says, an apology and an explanation both. "I really didn't. I thought it would be help, for you not to have to see or hear me play."