hismelody | (no subject)

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Even now, after more than a year here and the rocky months that preceded his arrival, S still sometimes finds it strange that he barely plays the piano anymore. There is, of course, a whole ton of baggage that comes along with that, too, but every once in a while, he's simply struck by the oddity of it. For such a long time, it was such a huge part of his life, the thing that helped bring him and his boyfriend together, the path he'd chosen for his future, both his schoolwork and his leisure time largely revolving around it. Now he doesn't even play daily, though he works around instruments. At least he has a good environment in which to do so. Playing at home would be out of the question for numerous reasons, not the least of which is that they don't have and can't afford a piano. At work, he can get it out of his system, so to speak, get some practice in so he doesn't lose all his skill. It's not something he has the same drive to pursue anymore. As much as he misses it, he can't force that feeling back. This is enough — a perfect arrangement, really.

He just has to keep telling himself that.

As is fairly usual, it's quiet near the end of the work day, no customers around. With his coworker in the back, the store is momentarily empty, and that feels worth taking advantage of. Sitting down at one of the display pianos — a beautiful grand, far nicer than anything he ever owned or ever really expected to, he remains still for a moment, just breathing in deep, savoring the familiar feeling of it, his hands resting delicately against the keys and eyes closed. When he opens them again, he begins playing Tchaikovsky, the simple, lilting, bittersweet melody coming from him easily. He means to be paying attention to the store still, but with so little time left until they close up anyway, he isn't expecting anyone to show up. He winds up, then, immersed enough in the music that he doesn't notice when the door opens and someone walks into the store.

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There's a strange sort of relief that always comes when S admits that J got something wrong. It's a ridiculous thing, he knows, when they're both deeply aware of how much he's fucked up in the past. Somehow, though, the fact that S can acknowledge the smaller errors makes J feel a little better about being forgiven the bigger ones. In any case, he'd rather have been wrong trying to look out for S than having deliberately hurt him.

He wants to tell S that it's okay, that he doesn't need to apologize. All that matters right now is that they understand each other, that they've made themselves clear. S knows what he means now, why he worried, that not wanting this kind of decision made for him isn't the same thing as him not wanting S to make choices ever. It bothered him when he was younger because, as always, he was caught up in his own perception of things, projecting his fears onto S's behavior. He understands better now. Even if part of him still fears now that he'll become somehow too much, in his heart, he knows S won't let it come to that, not ever.

He wants to tell him that, to say it's alright and he understands, but there's a pause in the air, the sense of something more to come, and he waits. And in spite of this whole debacle, the way S was playing when he walked in and the mess he's made of it all and the things he's managed to say in words either blurted out or broken off, he doesn't quite expect it. He's spent more than a year now conditioning himself to believe this wasn't possible, after all. S has spent just as much time thinking the same in some way, which J thinks explains why he sounds less than certain; he knows, he knows, S wouldn't offer him something like this half-hearted, that he'd do it to make J feel better, knowing it would make him feel worse if it hurt S in any way. These things rattle around in his head, fluffing their feathers, not settling long enough to become still or whole, as his throat goes tight, tears welling up inexorably.

"Are you sure?" he asks anyway, quiet only because it's hard to get his words out at all with his throat and heart aching. He feels like he's shaking. He wants it too much. Maybe that's stupid, some part of him trying desperately to recapture parts of a past he's done his best to let go of, but he can't help himself. Those parts, at least, were worth recapturing. If nothing else, he was so, so certain that he couldn't have that because he'd fucked up in a way that was impossible to fix. Even if S only played for him again once, maybe it would put that terrible voice to rest, or at least this particular line of its rhetorical weaponry. He just wants to know it's real and okay. "I do want that."

With all they've just discussed, even in the face of his own nervousness saying so, S isn't expecting such a strong reaction on J's part. It makes him feel, of all things, a little guilty all over again. Had he not so stupidly assumed he knew how J would feel about it, maybe it wouldn't have to be such a big deal. God knows it was once utterly inconsequential, something they both just did daily, a cornerstone of their relationship from the time they were first becoming friends. It hurts to see J so shaken, so moved, by S's mere offer of playing. He never wanted it to be like this, for the thing they both loved so much to do so much damage to both of them in so many different ways. Music used to be the easiest thing in the world for him — not that he didn't sometimes struggle to play a piece or try to write one, but all of it just made sense to him, as natural and instinctive as loving J. It was order and logic in a world often lacking both. He'd look at black marks on paper and understand how they related to each other, set his fingers on the corresponding keys and know how to move his hands to make them come out right.

He's felt guilty for that sometimes, too. Had it not come to him quite so naturally, maybe J wouldn't have begun to feel like he came up short in comparison. It's not as if S didn't still work for it, and of the two of them, he's always believed J to be the more talented of them, anyway. He's decent, of course, he knows he is, albeit not as much so as he used to be. The thought of that makes him a little nervous now, too, ashamed of how distant he's grown from what he used to love so much. And that's probably stupid, he knows, when he wouldn't have judged J for a second for being out of practice that day at Kagura, but he can't help it if he's insecure now in ways he wasn't before. Besides, when he had no idea it would mean this much to J, S doesn't want to disappoint him now.

"You said before... that you didn't want me to feel pressured," he murmurs, ducking his head, expression thoughtful. "But hearing you say it is... it lets me feel like I can." Saying it out loud like that feels unbelievably stupid, but it's true all the same. He lifts one shoulder, a corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest bit along with it. "I would never mind playing. I'd just want to know that you'd want to hear it."

J turns his head, hiding his face against S's shoulder for a few moments. It feels foolish to be overwhelmed by this, to want it this much. It's not really about what S plays, in the end, just that he plays, that he wants to, that he can. It's about how J has to fight his way to feeling bit by bit like he hasn't ruined everything. Things are different now, but parts of the past are worth preserving.

He wants to explain that. He wants to tell S what it means to him, except he doesn't yet know how to put it into words himself. There's a whole part of their life, their story, that he thought he'd cut himself off from forever, and here S is, giving it back, opening it up to him again. "I do," he says again, a little petulant, a little more embarrassed. He sniffles, head turning slowly again so he can glance up at S, hair just slightly in the way. "I... I miss it. And sitting together and music and..." He sighs. It isn't, precisely, the past itself he longs for or even those particular moments. It's the comfort and ease they once felt over this shared pastime, something that brought them so close together. It's how their love story began, how the next chapter unfolded when he accidentally let his secrets spill out of him.

"We were at the piano," he murmurs, "when I told you. When we first kissed. We shared that. I thought I'd made it so we never could again." He doesn't know if they'll ever play together like they did before. He wouldn't want to try yet, when it's a big enough gift to hear S play at all. But it would be enough just to sit there and watch him and listen, to take back one more thing he thought he wrecked. "So... so yes. I do want to hear."

S doesn't know how to say — doesn't want to say — that he thought the same thing, except for the part about J making it that way. It happened. There were so many different factors at play, and he still doesn't understand all of it. He knows he wasn't blameless, though, just like he knows that some of it was purely circumstantial, and that part, too, was that piece that J has called the voice, coming from him but not really him, not entirely. The way it fell apart could never have been just one person's doing, largely because of what J has just said. They shared it for so long. When they were still together, S never stopped trying to share it, but he thinks that did a fair amount of damage in itself, considering how fraught things had become. Had he not continued pushing, had he stepped away, maybe it wouldn't have been quite so bad. There are a dozen different what ifs, and he knows he can't get hung up on them, that it's impossible to determine what could actually have changed, but he's sure even so that it isn't solely on J.

"You say that like I could ever have forgotten," he says quietly, just barely teasing, turning his head to press a soft kiss to J's damp cheek. Of course he couldn't. Everything about that night is permanently etched into his memory — the Christmas season making the loss of his parents that much harder again, J playing the song he wrote for him to try to cheer him up, coaxing him over to the piano and then admitting how he felt, S's heart racing because he thought it was just him. That first careful kiss, learning that he was allowed something he was sure would be out of reach. The piano was always there, always a part of it. This past year, it's been nice to have proof of how strong their relationship can be without it, but that hasn't stopped him from missing when they shared it.

He huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, his nose scrunching as he tries again to dry his face a little, eyes tired from crying. "Ah, I'm a mess," he mumbles. "How'd I wind up crying so much?"

There's so much affection and warmth in S's voice and that gentle kiss that it threatens to overwhelm J again. It's nothing new, all that tenderness, but that's perhaps precisely why. They've shared half their lives now and more; they'll share the rest of it, too, and that love doesn't dim, no matter what they throw at it. If anything, it shines brighter now for all they've put it through.

He tries to laugh at S's question, and it comes out small and broken, almost a whimper, which is so ridiculous that it does make him laugh a little. Clinging to S still, he shakes his head. He should try to dry his own eyes, he knows, but he doesn't want to let go even that much or that briefly, not yet. "I started it," he says, not so much a self-accusation as an explanation. "You always cry if I do." He huffs out another laugh, wrinkling up his nose at himself. "And I always cry if you do." It's absurd, really, but he can't help it and neither can S. They're too closely intertwined.

Resolving to do better isn't enough. He's done it countless times now, after all, and they still end up in messes like this. It's a start, though, and how they also get out of these messes, so he does so again. One of these days, he thinks, it might actually stick. He's made so much progress this last year, even if he frequently feels like he's sliding backwards, and he knows that it's due to S. Of course, J knows, he's the one who had to push and work and put in the effort, and he's the one who'll have to keep doing so. The truth is, though, he doesn't know if he could have done it solely for his own good. He'd thought himself too much of a lost cause. But for S, he could do anything.

Still sniffling, still clinging to S one-handed, he lifts the other at last to swipe away the lingering tears. "I love you. Anyway, we're both messes."

S smiles at that, weak but indescribably fond, still holding onto J in turn. As much as he hates seeing J so upset, and he really does, there's something sweet about J like this, all soft and clingy. Despite how long they've been here now, and on so much steadier ground than before, there's always some relief, too, in being able to talk through something like this without it coming to a fight. They misunderstood each other at first, but they said what they needed to and they've wound up better off for it, or he thinks they have, hopes they have. Somewhere in the back of his head is the possibility that this could still go wrong — reopen old wounds, rekindle the sense of competition that came between them before — but he hopes it won't. That has to be enough. Like J said a few moments ago, they were happy together for much longer than they weren't, and music was part of that. It used to be something they shared. Even if neither of them ever feels about it the way they once did, even if they don't play together like they did when they were younger, there's no sense in letting the time when it went wrong negate the time that it was right.

"I love you," he echoes. "So much." It's a love big enough that he'd have been more than willing never to touch a piano again if it would do them any good, though he sees no need to point out that hypothetical now. While he thought until not very long ago at all that it might come to that, or should have, he knows now that he was reading everything all wrong. The last thing they need is to go back to talking themselves in circles over it. "Even when we're both messes."

As true as it is that he tends to start crying when J does, in this case, it wasn't even what set him off. Being told that J missed hearing him play is what did that, the very fact of it still leaving S slightly stunned, so at odds with what he's spent all these months believing. "Will you sit with me for a minute?"

In spite of his offer, he's not sure he could play quite yet, all sniffly and bleary-eyed. He does want to get off his feet, though, and regain his bearings, as long as he can stay close to J while he does so.

Though J isn't much inclined to pull away right now, sitting down sounds really nice. He was walking around for a while before he came here, and now he's a little wobbly from all the emotion and adrenaline, too. It might help, really, to sit for a bit as his nerves recover. At this point, he's cried so much that he's careful even to avoid nodding, not wanting to make himself dizzy.

Even so, he hesitates a moment. There is, as far as he's aware, nowhere to sit here except at the piano. It's precisely where S means, probably, if only for that reason, but it still feels like a big step. They've only sat together like that a very small handful of times in the last half a year, and not at all for a long time before that, so long that J doesn't actually recall what the last time was. When he played again at Kagura, he was so caught on the fact of what he was doing that that bit, while noteworthy, wasn't quite as striking as it is now.

Still, they need to sit and there's really nowhere else and it's not like J doesn't want to; he's just aware. Lifting his head, he tugs at S's shirt, drawing him close enough to kiss. "Of course," he murmurs when he draws back, pulling slowly away, reaching for S's hands. Fingers intertwined, he leads S along with him toward the piano, his heart leaping wildly. "Over here." He sits slowly, carefully, knowing he's off balance enough he could tip over if he doesn't, and he doesn't want to make this more of a mess than it is. Even so, he doesn't let go of S's hands, letting out a quiet sigh at the relief of sitting. "Better?"

Even now, S can't help wishing a little that there were somewhere else more convenient for them to sit, though he knows there's no reason for there to be. People come here to look at and buy instruments and music, not to sit on a couch. It would be better, though, just to curl up for a while rather than having to go over to a piano right now. Whether or not he plays today, putting them both there when emotions are already running so high might be a step too far, too fast. It's all that makes sense, though, and it'll be good for them both to get off their feet for a few minutes, catch their breath, settle down. They're alright. Over and over, S keeps telling himself that, awed and relieved. Stunned, too, though less because of that — given what they've survived so far, he really does have to believe that they could get through anything — than because of what J has told him. It's a lot to take in, still so unexpected.

Maybe it's actually a good thing, then, to be where they are, his hands in J's as he takes a seat close beside him on the piano bench like he's done so many countless times before, leaning his head on J's shoulder as soon as he's done so. Being here, in this close proximity to a piano, might help this development seem more real. If nothing else, he has the small but distinct sense that he wants it to be, one more thing he wouldn't have let himself feel before now. It's something he's still wary of, not wanting to fuck this up, but it feels even so like a door that he thought was closed and locked for good has been opened a crack, and that makes all the difference in the world.

"Better," he agrees, his voice soft, as he lifts one of J's hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He almost leaves it at that, but after a quiet moment, just a bit wistful, he adds, "We spent so much time sitting like this, didn't we?"

J turns his head, brushing a kiss against S's hair, a soft laugh muffled there. "So much time," he says, hushed. There may not be anyone else here, but that's never mattered. Some things are meant so utterly just for the two of them, there's no need to speak any louder. When S kisses his hand like that, when there's a beautiful instrument in front of them, he doesn't want to break the moment.

"Nearly every day," he adds. It may not actually have been every single day — he knows that, for much of his life, he played every day, if only a very tiny bit, but there were plenty of times they just didn't have a chance to sit together like this, bogged down in work and studies. It was near enough, though, just a simple, ordinary part of their lives. It was home. He really doesn't want to go backwards. As happy as they were, they weren't equipped to handle how he changed. They're better prepared now.

He smiles a bit brighter, though it'd be hard to tell, his face hidden against S's hair like this. "Though this is a little bit nicer than the one we had. On the surface, anyway." On the surface, it's a hell of a lot nicer, a much better quality and type of piano than the one they owned. He never cared, though. It worked and they knew the instrument well, knew how to coax beauty out of it. He used to dream of playing something like this. He's not sure he really wants to today, but maybe he'll come back again sometime and try it after all.

Although he may not be able to see much of J like this, S can hear the shift in his voice that suggests he's smiling, that alone an unspeakable relief. For such a long time, thinking about that part of their past did nothing but leave him miserable and lonely. Here, it hasn't been nearly as bad as that, but there's still been something bittersweet about dwelling on something long gone and out of reach, a time they could never get back. That last part is still true. He wouldn't want to go back to it, no matter how much he misses that time in their lives. It fell apart back then, after all. Only here have they been able to rebuild. He'd thought that, in doing so, it would be better, safer, not to have this. It's nice to consider that maybe he was wrong, that, if nothing else, they can still sit at a piano together, pleasantly reminiscing about the good parts of their earlier life together.

"Ah, much nicer on the surface," he agrees, smiling in turn. "I used to imagine that we'd have a piano like this one day. And the space for it. It's practically the size of our whole studio." It's an exaggeration, of course, but it isn't one at all to say that even if they'd had the money, they wouldn't have been able to house a piano of this size in their small little apartment. There'd have been no room for other furniture or for the two of them to move around.

He never minded that. He was always happy with what they had; still, even all this time later, he thinks he would take the upright piano that they had in their studio over one as fine as this. That was the one he grew up playing, after all, that he brought from his childhood home when they moved in together. "Playing this one still feels strange sometimes. Like I'm getting away with something."

That draws another hushed laugh from J, and he rests his head against S's. He remembers being hardly more than a kid, living in that studio together, the strange combination of content and restless he was back then. He dreamed of so much more. A piano like this was high up the list of things he wanted, and a home bigger and better than what they shared. At the same time, he didn't really mind the size of it, not at the start, not until he started to take umbrage with nearly everything. The heat in summer bothered him more than sharing a small bed when they would have wound up curled around each other anyway.

What they have now... There are costs, of course. Deep down, he knows they couldn't have had this kind of life back home, and being here — well, he doesn't see how he can ever leave. He doesn't have a back home to return to now. But it feels miraculous — it is — to be as comfortable and stable as they are, as safe as they could ever dream of being.

"Ah, I'm sure," he says wryly, briefly thinking of reaching out and touching the keys himself. The one at Kagura is beautiful, too, and he spent significant parts of the winter waiting for someone to chase him away from it. Right now, though, he's tired and wobbly and wants nothing more than to keep hold of S. "But that's part of the fun sometimes, isn't it?" It's probably a bad impulse, but he enjoys that feeling at times — tugging S around a corner and out of sight to steal a kiss when they were teenagers or even now when they go out as a couple and do things he couldn't have justified before, dates and movies and that kind of thing. The desire to get what he wants outweighing the knowledge it's a bad idea is one of his worser habits, all things considered. "And very romantic. Illicit piano playing."

Wrung out as he feels from being so emotional, moments like these are some of S's favorites in their relationship. That first while J was here, it isn't that S didn't trust him, but he still couldn't help expecting everything to go wrong somehow, any burst of emotion like this or disagreement making him hold his breath and wonder if they were about to fuck everything up all over again. Even continuing to talk about something that holds so much weight for them, though, they're fine now, finding ways to enjoy those memories instead of being dragged down by them. Skeptical as he may have been at first, he thinks now that it's a good thing that they're discussing it, finding a way to hold onto the thing they both loved so much. Whether they did or not, after all, it would always have been there. All that time and all that passion doesn't just disintegrate. They can still love it without loving it like they did before.

"Only romantic for us," he teases, giving J a gentle little nudge. That's all that matters, though, whether it is to them or not, and he isn't about to argue on either front. It is fun to feel like he's getting away with something he shouldn't be able to do, especially when he knows that's not true. His boss and his coworkers know he plays, and it's hardly as if he's the only person on staff here who's also a musician. It's safe and yet surreal, something that would at the absolute least have been out of reach back in Seoul for a long, long time. "But it is. Not that we ever needed it to be illicit to be romantic."

He doesn't want to ruin this again, but he doesn't want to talk around what they only just finally managed to address head-on, either. Still leaning against J's side, head on his shoulder, S slowly lifts his outside hand, fingertips grazing the smooth, glossy keys. "I don't know if I should play more now. Or what I'd play if I did."

J nearly points out that their relationship was, by default, illicit enough on its own back then. But S lifts his hand and J feels it in the slight shift of his body before he sees it, still familiar after all this time. The sight of it makes his heart ache, but comfortably now, spotting home in the distance after a long time away.

"You can if you want," he says. As badly as he wants to hear what S would play, that's not even the part that matters most to him right now. That S would even consider it, that they've talked about it now and he knows S feels safe to do so, matters more than whether or not it happens now. They're both finding their way back to this, even if their paths are different now. "Whatever you feel like." Carefully, he slips his hand from S's, bringing it to rest on his thigh instead, close and, he hopes, still reassuring. If S wants to play, he'll have both hands free now, and J won't have to pull away or stop touching him for that to happen. "And if not, I can come back another time."

His mind circles back to what he was going to say a moment ago, and he laughs again, quiet but there. "Our idea of romantic is different from most people's in general, I think." Though he tries not to think too much about certain things, he vaguely recalls once having found it at once endearing and attractive that S had thought of committing murder to avenge him, and he still finds it extremely romantic that S continues to choose him, to want him, in spite of everything. At this point, he doesn't think they have any say at all as to whether or not they love each other, but no one, least of all himself, could have faulted S for not wanting to take this relationship back on after all that's happened. It's not always easy, being with J, he knows that, but S never makes him feel like it's hard either or not worth the trouble.

It's such a small gesture, J's hand unlacing from his to rest on his leg instead. The meaning of it — the quiet encouragement in it — is clear, though, echoed by the words that accompany it. Even now, there's a part of S that wishes for something more overt, an express request of some kind, but at least he knows now that they're coming at this from opposite perspectives. Where he might need to know that this is not only allowed, but wanted, it's clear that J needs to know that he's choosing this himself, not feeling pushed or cornered into it. This, then, might be the best middle ground for both of them, a tiny sign for him to continue that leaves it still in his hands. In a way, what J says helps, too. The fact that he would come back for this says a lot about how much he must really want it. If he didn't, it would be easy to let it go, to leave it at not today and simply never revisit the idea, no harm done.

Still S is tentative, though he knows that's more to do with himself than with J or any fear of this going badly. It's been such a long time since he's done this, and he's not sure if the last time, that last night, should even count. He played because J asked him to, but it was short-lived and ended disastrously, perhaps even doing more harm to the situation, if that's actually possible. Before then, it had been nearly a year since they'd seen each other at all; now, it's been more than a year here that they've been together but he's carefully avoided playing the piano around J. In light of everything they've just said, though, it doesn't feel like going backwards, revisiting a time that's long gone. It feels at least like it could be starting something new, figuring it out as they go. He hopes that proves to be the case, anyway.

"That's probably true," he murmurs, soft and fond, turning his head to press a kiss to J's cheek again. "But I like it that way." When he looks back at the piano, he's quiet for a moment, thoughtful, considering his options. He could stop and save this for later, let the conversation they've had be enough of a step forward for the time being. If he puts it off, though, he's not sure if or when he'll take that initiative again. And if he does play, he has to decide what. Going back to the Tchaikovsky seems wrong now; it's too melancholy for this moment, when they're likely enough to wind up emotional anyway. For the same reason, so does something too upbeat seem like it would be out of place.

Finally, taking a slow, deep breath, he brings his other hand up to the keys, letting them rest there, focusing on the steady warmth of J beside him. Then, after another moment, he begins to play Debussy's "Rêverie," delicate and wistful. It's always been one of his favorites, and it seems right for this moment, a memory and something new all at once.

J smiles, head ever so slightly turned so he can see S without openly staring. It's a position he perfected as a teenager, quietly, awkwardly in love, trying not to be terribly obvious. Actually, he thinks, he liked perfected it before he even understood why. He watches like this, waiting, S's contemplative silence enough to make him want to keep quiet in turn. He knows how it feels when S is considering something, the pause of him weighing his options. Whatever he decides on, J wants it to be his. If he wants to wait, if he dives in, it's his choice to make, not J's, and J tries to keep the weight of his longing in check. He got good at that as a teenager, too.

It's not until he hears the slow, deliberate breath S takes, preparing to play, that J realizes he's all but holding his own. He takes one to match, or tries to; it catches in his throat as S's fingers grace the keys.

It's a beautiful piece, one it takes J a moment to place. He hasn't listened very much to classical pieces since he came here. He's tentative when it comes to music in general, wanting and still unsure. Even before he recalls the name and composer, though, he feels the rightness of it, wandering and longing and thoughtful, coaxing and curious. S's touch is light and deft, and J can feel his heart reply, fluttering untethered in his chest. He knew the day he came here that he'd been forgiven, whether or not he deserved it. He's not even sure S has ever actually said those words, I forgive you. It's never been necessary. But this, getting to sit next to S and listen to him again, in spite of all he did wrong over the years — it makes him feel it all over again. Warmed through and aching at once, he closes his eyes, and it's enough to hold back the tears that well up again for now. He's missed this and he's grateful for it, soaking in the beauty of Debussy's work and S's skill like parched land after a long-awaited rain. For a while, music and what it means to him has been a difficult thing to wrap his head around, but like this, he can feel it again, just for a while, the notes soothing him as delicately and with as much certainty as ever.

Most of the time, when S plays now, he doesn't do so with any particular degree of seriousness. He doesn't take it too lightly, but he plays only for the sake of it — for fun, and to not fall totally out of practice. Sometimes there are coworkers around, but he's certainly not playing for an audience or any kind of achievement these days. Now, though, there's a weight to it that he isn't used to, making him hyper-aware of every note he plays, every shift of his hands. He's not as good as he used to be, and he knows it. There's nothing about their current situation to suggest that J will judge or think less of him for it, but S can't help feeling self-conscious even so, worried he'll somehow disappoint. The insecurity isn't a very familiar one — he was always calmly confident before, knowing that he could play well, but not seeing himself the way J did — but there have been a good few of those over the last year. Having another now, when everything about this has changed, isn't such a surprise.

All he can really do is continue, likewise incredibly aware of J beside him. For so long, he tried not to let himself miss this. It was easier to give himself distance from music, even while surrounding himself with it. Now that they're here, he's too nervous for it to feel right yet, the way it did from the time they were children, but it's not wrong. Even if he pointedly cannot bring himself to look over at J, not wanting to break his concentration or grow too emotional, he can practically sense the energy being given off, a distinct lack of the old tension. This is something different. It should be.

About halfway through, he tapers off, breath shallow, chest tight. His hands linger there against the keys, and then he lets them fall to his lap again, one resting warm and gentle over J's. Only then does he turn again, eyes wide with uncertainty and, despite himself, just a trace of hope. "Is this alright?" he asks, quiet, just for J. It should be obvious, probably, but he has to be sure. "Are you..."

The music softens and stops, but J doesn't open his eyes yet. He closes them a little tighter, in fact, silently urging the tears to stay back. He doesn't want S to see them and misunderstand. It's not quite enough — it never actually works, though he always tries — and he can feel one or two slip free even as he nods. There's a deep ache in his chest, pushing against his ribs, but it is, he thinks, a good kind. Mostly good, at least, if not wholly so. It's too early to tell, too hard to wrap his head around his emotions just yet.

The way S plays has changed a little. Not enough to make J feel he's missed out on some part of S's growth, but enough that he can notice, can hear that S hasn't played seriously in some time, but that he's still good, if a little less sure than he used to be. J can't fault him that. He's the same now. Well, a lot less sure, in his case, but they're both somewhat out of practice these days. He's glad that S hasn't let go of playing entirely. That's what matters — that he can still play, that he wants to, that he's allowed J to sit here and listen.

Making a soft sound of agreement, he sniffs, reaching up with his free hand to rub the heel of it over his cheek. "Yes," he murmurs. "It's alright. I'm alright." He lets out a small, helpless, embarrassed laugh, glancing over at S finally, his eyes wide and wet. A long time ago, he asked S to play for him one last time. For more than a year now, he thinks, he really believed that was what happened that night. Now it's not true anymore, another part of it falling away, as if they're undoing a curse piece by piece and he's fighting his way back to the world, casting off the remaining binds of some dark and terrible spell. As in most fairy tales, they've stepped into their future with their innocence left behind them, but it is, he thinks, a brighter future than they could have hoped for two years ago. "It's pretty. You're pretty."

That there are a few fresh tear tracks running down J's cheeks when S looks over doesn't come as much of a surprise. They were both emotional already, after all, and this is no insignificant turn of events. For his own part, he thinks, there's an extent to which he's instinctively keeping himself at a distance from it. He really never thought he would do this again — sit and play the piano with J beside him, wanting him to play, not turning it into a competition or a fight. It's not the best of what it was, when it felt like home to be right here, the two of them making music together, but it's a far cry from the worst of what it was, too. If nothing else, it feels safe. He doesn't know where they'll go from here, but he doesn't need to. It's enough to have wound up here, to be able to take this step after so, so long.

"You're pretty," he counters gently. There's fondness still in his voice, and a hint of teasing, but relief, too. No matter what either of them may have said, he didn't know how this would actually go until he'd actually done it. As J has said, though, it's alright. They're both a mess, even if S mercifully hasn't started crying again himself yet, but they're alright. It seems silly now ever to have feared that they wouldn't be. They've weathered so much worse than this. Of course, he still wouldn't have wanted to hurt J unnecessarily, particularly in bringing up a subject that was so fraught for them for so long, but even so, he should have known better.

At least they're here now. Leaning in, he presses a soft, brief kiss to the corner of J's mouth, nose brushing against his cheek. "I'm glad you're alright," he murmurs. It doesn't seem quite right — doesn't begin to encompass all the complicated feelings he has surrounding this — but he thinks J might understand even so. "Ah, I haven't played for anyone else in such a long time."

J's not pretty in the least and he knows it — not, at least, right now, when he has to be red and blotchy, lower lip jutting out petulantly as is usually the case when he's feeling emotional and doesn't particularly like it. This isn't so bad, admittedly, given the feelings in question, but he still dislikes crying in public, even if there's no one else to see. That doesn't matter, though, nearly as much as the sweetness in S's voice, the closeness of him when he speaks, the gentle understatement of it all. Anything more, and he might burst into tears, feeling horribly fragile. As it is, he's too overcome by too many emotions to make sense of any of it. Alright is about as good a word as he can put to it right now.

He turns, leaning into S, burying his face against S's shoulder for a few moments. He doesn't know what this is now or what it means exactly, if they'll even do this again, but it's a relief somehow, a release, a kind of grief wound through it. The past is so far behind them, but there are parts of it he wants to keep, parts that meant too much to lose, but he'd thought he'd lost them anyway. It's silly, he thinks, when he knows that isn't true in any way that matters, because nothing can take those memories from him now. Even so, it felt so removed, and all he could do was blame himself. Maybe now he can let that part of it go too.

"I'm glad you played for me," he mumbles, frustratingly wobbly, clutching S's leg a little tighter as he steadies himself. Thank you feels wrong, but there's gratitude all the same. "Sihyun-ah..." Sometimes it seems like he'll never run out of reasons to be angry with himself, but at least S is here to help him brush a few away. Tilting his head up, he kisses S's jaw, drawing in a shaky breath, letting out a helpless huff of a laugh. "I feel better. And stupid. But better."

It doesn't matter how flushed or tear-stained he might be. S still thinks J is absolutely beautiful, and he makes no effort to hide it, the softness in his expression likely making it more than a little apparent. He almost says so, in fact, almost repeats himself to emphasize that, despite the countless times he's done so before and will again. What J says, though, stops him, words caught in his throat, suddenly far less important. Given the conversation that brought all of this about in the first place, it should be self-explanatory that J is glad. Still, there's a lot of weight in hearing it said outright like that. S doesn't respond out loud at first, just taking that in, trying to commit everything about this moment to memory. Maybe this will be it, all there is, a way of making their last memory of S playing a better one, or maybe they'll do this again. It won't be what it was, but that doesn't mean it can't be anything at all.

"I'm glad you wanted me to," he murmurs finally, a quiet confession, though he doesn't realize just how true that is until he's actually said it. He never would have done it otherwise; it never would have occurred to him that J might want that. "I... I didn't know how much I missed this." He knew it when he sat beside J in Kagura, but he also believed then that their roles would never be reversed. It felt so, so good to sit there and listen to J play again, perhaps even better than this, but this is a significant step forward in a different way, something that came between them for so long no longer having to do so. He doesn't ever want to go back to that.

He doesn't know what comes next, but he doesn't need to. Curled close against J's side, S stays where he is, breathing him in, still savoring this. "I feel stupid, too," he adds. "But... I would never mind playing for you. Really."

J envies him that a little bit. He's known for a while now how badly he missed this, the awareness only serving to make it worse, to make him want it more. But then, he thinks, S didn't know because, it seems, he didn't let himself. That's its own kind of awful. This used to be them. This used to be home. And he wishes he could say the same to S, that he would never mind hearing it, but there was very much a time when he did. Of course S must have worried J wouldn't want to anymore.

It takes him a moment to be able to say anything at all, sniffling quietly, trying not to start crying outright. He should have known better, he thinks, but he didn't, and it's such a fucking relief to hear S say these things. As overcome as he may feel, it's the good kind, really. "Not stupid," he murmurs, shaking his head. "You're not stupid at all. You're sweet and thoughtful, and you wanted me to be okay. You had no reason to think I wanted this. I should have said. I should have been clearer." With the hand not still clutching S's leg, he wipes at his eyes, attempting to improve his vision a bit. "And you should have asked. But I get why you didn't."

It's hard to say even that much, really, which is also no fault of S's. It's just that J spent so long criticizing S for every little thing, and it's hard to do so at all now, even when it's rational, founded, and gentle. He's not yelling at S for the sake of it or to let off steam or over some imagined problem, but he hated that time in their lives so, so much, and it hurts to be in a situation where he can't help worrying he'll put them back there. Teasing is simple, but actual issues are hard to pick through, at least when he's not already too upset for it to make much difference to his state. Emotional though he may be, he's much calmer now than he was earlier. That makes it hard. But he just reminds himself that it's important. It wouldn't be fair to either of them if he let his fear keep him biting his tongue. They have to be able to discuss things. S won't misjudge him. He just has to keep himself from doing so.

He sighs, shrugging slightly as he looks over at S, so close and so lovely. "I have to get better at asking, too. I just... don't like talking about... before. It's hard."

S nods, that much easy to understand, something he would have assumed even without J saying it outright. Of course talking about before is hard. There's a reason why they don't do so very often, after all, and probably, too, that it only tends to come up like this, with emotions running high and when there's no way to hold it back anymore. They should have brought this up sooner, but of course they didn't. He can't be upset with J for not doing so, and he tries to offer that same understanding to himself, even if he does still feel incredibly stupid. The assumption he made may be better than the one J thought he made, but the truth is better still than both of them, and he could have known so long ago instead of spending all these months trying to convince himself that he couldn't have this, that he didn't want to. There's still so much that's uncertain and no way to predict what it will be for either of them, but that doesn't mean it can't be anything. That alone is huge.

"I know," he murmurs, lifting one hand to brush the backs of his fingers along J's cheek again, the touch gentle, light. "It's hard for me, too. Of course it is." He has, inasmuch as is possible, made his peace with the mess of what happened. He had more time to do so, all those months on his own before he showed up here and found J again. Everything that's happened since, this past year, has only affirmed what he feels, but that doesn't mean he likes revisiting the time when they were falling apart. Nothing good lies back there except for knowing what not to do this time, and he still isn't always even sure of that. He should have known before, but he didn't. He might not know now.

But every time here that something has gone wrong, they've talked it through. They haven't always gotten things right, but they haven't gotten them horrifically, irrevocably wrong, either. That has to mean something. Even now, with both of them believing something wrong about each other, they've found the other side of it, and they can make their way forward from here. He meant what he said a few minutes ago, that they do learn. They've gotten so much better at talking these things through. They just still have further to go. "I should have asked," he agrees, swallowing hard. "It was just... easier, I think. Or less complicated. To tell myself that this should be just yours, and leave it at that. But I missed it."

Easier for S, J nearly says, but it's not entirely true. It was just a different kind of difficult for him. But for J, the terrible aching anxiety might have been eased sooner, and that's the problem. At the same time, S couldn't have known that; it would have been easy to assume talking about it would only make things worse. It's all so messy and complicated, but that's a good thing, too, J thinks. Hopes, anyway. Simply yelling at each other and not talking things out was less complicated, too, but ultimately so much worse. Sometimes messy is useful.

"It shouldn't be," he says, quiet and earnest. "It's ours. Whatever shape that is. And I — I don't want you to give things up for me. If I did, I'd say so." He already feels like he's wreaked too much havoc on S's life, complicated too many things. It's up to S whether or not that's true, and he knows S disagrees, but that doesn't keep him from wanting to make sure it never gets to that point. He wants to give S more, not less.

"I... I was scared to say anything, because it hurts, talking about those things." And if he never said anything, he knows, S could never confirm he was right. He was too much of a coward, too blinded by his worries. "But... we have to sometimes. Even if it hurts... I'd rather know what you're thinking about and worrying about. And if... something is too much for me or a problem, I promise I'll tell you, but... ask me. It's better to know for sure, even if it hurts, right? I'll try to remember. I should have said."

Put like that, it makes total sense, of course, the same thing that S himself has said on numerous occasions. He would rather know than not know, he would rather hear painful truths than be left to wonder about them, he likes knowing that they can weather any situations that come their way. Somehow, with this one thing, he just never considered it from that perspective. He felt so sure that he already knew where they stood, enough that no other possibilities occurred to hm. At most, he figured that J would probably tell him not to give it up, if S had ever admitted what was on his mind, but that it would then still be there, making them miserable, driving a wedge between them all over again. He never thought that they might both be unhappier not talking about it.

The problem, he supposes, is exactly what J has just said, in a way. It was theirs once, but it hasn't felt like it in a long time, not to S. That broke a long time ago, slipping through his fingers so quickly that it was all but gone already by the time he tried to grab hold of it again. Things are different now, and he holds no resentment over the way it was then, but he's never stopped seeing the piano, and in particular his playing and composing, as part of what went so wrong. Besides, he meant what he's said to J about it before. Somewhere down the line, he fell out of love with it. After J left, after he fucking died, of course that passion extinguished. He just wonders now if it never reignited again because part of him didn't want it to, thinking it was easier that way, better.

"I should have said, too," he murmurs, apologetic, dropping his head to J's shoulder for a moment. They both should have, but at least they have now. That, in his opinion, counts for a hell of a lot. "It is better to know for sure. Even if it hurts." With a slow exhale, he reaches over, blindly taking one of J's hands in his own. "And I know you wouldn't have wanted me to give things up. That you wouldn't have... asked for that, or expected it. I just thought it was right. Like maybe if it had been that way from the start..."

"No," J says, soft but firm. He'd shake his head, but he doesn't want to make S think he's shaking him away, his hand curling tight in S's. "It wasn't. None of that was right, Sihyun-ah." It hurts to think about, and J hates that, in some way, he was right. It's the shadow of what was that's made this so difficult, and he's all too aware still of the horrible things he said — not all of them, no, because he's sure he said things when he was upset that he's forgotten, but more often things stick, echoing in his head down the years, long after they've been forgiven. It just never should have fallen to S to think he could fix all this or that he should have had to choose differently to mend what's broken in J.

Besides, he thinks, a sudden clarity piercing the ache, it wouldn't have helped at all. "I would have hated that, too, I think," he says. His throat hurts a little, and he feels like his blood is pulsing in his ears, painfully alive at the pulse points in his wrists. Revisiting any of that time is horrible. That he does so all the time doesn't change that. "You don't understand. It wouldn't have been either of ours then. I was scared. Losing something that... made me me. And you still had it, and I didn't know who I was anymore... If you'd stopped, if you'd given it up... I would have felt guilty, but also I — it would have been a choice for you. I didn't feel like I had that. It was just... gone. Everything — I was so fucked up, darling. Nothing would have made me happy. Not that."

Maybe if he'd been able to make himself talk sooner. Maybe if he'd told S the truth, found a way to explain how it felt like he was watching himself disappear, watching himself get replaced by someone who looked and sounded very much like himself, but animated by all his worst tendencies. Maybe if he'd been able to let S see him properly, to know that he was terrified and in pain, maybe then they could have done something. But he didn't know how. Even now, after over a year of pushing and trying and working and talking, some things are intensely difficult. He's had so long to think about all this, and it still feels like there are things he doesn't understand. And what he does understand, and what he can say, he says like this, by turns barreling forward and haltingly, trembling slightly and holding S's hand perhaps a little too tight. It's there. He puts it away as best he can and he lives where and when he is now, but that past is always there and he is always afraid that it will be here again, too, just as he is, that a day will come when, once again, he watches himself fade away. He felt it earlier this year and he survived it, but even that wasn't as bad as it's been before. Maybe that's because, this time, S pulled the words out of him. Maybe it's because he's been able to say things like this, to prepare S a little better to help him through. Or maybe that was a warning shot, a shadow version, letting him off light, but only for now. As awful as all of this is to say, as frightening as it is to say aloud, yet again, that he doesn't believe they could have changed what happened then, it needs to be said. Everything he thinks and learns about that time should be said, held up to the light, examined for clues so that next time, it can be changed. But that doesn't keep him from shaking, remembering all that fury and despair.