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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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.

It isn't the first time S has heard J say something to that effect, but somehow it hits differently in context like this. For a long, long time now, S has been at least half-convinced that it would have been better if he'd never gotten into piano at all — if he'd tried his hand at a different instrument, perhaps, still enabling them to play together but without the sense of competition that developed on J's part, or if he'd had another interest entirely and just supported J in his music. He doesn't know what else that would have changed, though. They would have fallen in love regardless, he's sure of that, but it's difficult to imagine them doing so without it being at the piano, the song J wrote for him bright and bittersweet in the air. It was always there, a lovely constant between them. He's told himself this past year that it's nice to know that they don't need piano to get by together, and he really does believe that.

But it was so present before that the lack of it has been a practically tangible thing, and all he's really been able to do is try to avoid that space, keeping a careful distance so he could keep trying to believe that it didn't matter. J walking into the store today threw him headfirst into it, making him newly aware of how desperately he's missed what used to be there. Even now, he knows they won't get that back, not really, not exactly; that's undoubtedly for the best, given how wrong everything went before. He keeps thinking, though, that that doesn't mean it can't be anything. Trying to figure out what that might be is a strange, daunting prospect, but it's still better than keeping something he once loved so much at arm's length. At least now, he might — they both might — have a chance to love it again, maybe even to rediscover that together.

"It wasn't either of ours anyway," he murmurs, apologetic, still curled as close to J as he can manage with the two of them sitting here. "I didn't still have it. Once it wasn't yours... wasn't ours... it wasn't mine, either." It's not the same, but it's not totally different, either, or at least he believes it isn't. His hand clasping J's, steady but gentler, he lets out a long, slow sigh. "How could I love something that tore us apart?"

Maybe it's not fair. There were other factors, certainly, and it isn't as if music itself could have acted with any intention. It was the two of them making countless missteps, though he suspects they would point to different ones, both putting more of the blame on themselves, if asked. Music is where those first cracks appeared, though, at least the first ones he could see. Losing J just drove him further from it. In the time they've been here, he's been chasing after what it used to feel like, the way he used to love it. Today, just now, is the closest he's gotten.

"I wish I'd known how to help you," he adds, quieter still, trying to keep himself steady. J seems like he might be about to shake clear out of his skin; S can only try to counter that by being here. "I wish... I don't know."

A small sigh punches out of J, a possible precursor to a sob, though he tries to hold it back. He doesn't know if he can agree, but he doesn't think S is wrong either. It's not like music is what really ruined everything, but it played a role. He wouldn't have spent months avoiding it if it hadn't, if he weren't afraid that his desire to play would shake loose whatever evil still sits inside him. But it's not the music; it's his reaction to it, his need and his weakness. He still doesn't know entirely why it began to slip away from him. It felt, back then, like most things were pulling away, his confidence and courage with them.

"I do too," he whispers, chest tight and aching. "I wish I'd known, too. I wish I could have told you what to do." There was no cure for it, though — nothing, at least, they would have wiped it all away and freed him of it. If he'd been better able to communicate, if he'd had the words to explain, if he hadn't been so worried and ashamed that it kept him even from trying, maybe they could have done something. He didn't know, though, how to do it. It ate away at him and he didn't even know how to name it. He still doesn't, not really. It's not just a voice, after all. It's terrible feelings and something that at least sounds like himself, and he doesn't know how to fight himself when he can't tell which parts are lies and which are true.

"Isn't that what tore us apart though?" he manages after a moment. "Not music. Not really. I don't know. I feel like there would always have been something. Something wrong in me." This isn't quite the conversation he meant to have when he sat, but there's truth in what S says, no matter what J wants to believe, a clear line between music and madness, if only in his own reactions. Whether or not the piano is in any way at fault, his needs and fears around music fueled so much of how he behaved, a channel for all the confusion inside him.

S doesn't know if that's true or not. That, too, is something he's heard before, or at least something close to it, but it's hard to know what to say, the hypothetical impossible to play out. Maybe there would always have been something, but maybe it wouldn't have been as bad if there weren't something pitting them directly against each other, if the professor hadn't been pouring poison into J's ear. If J hadn't used his piece as inspiration for the fucking Gloria Artis. Regardless, he refuses to see it the way J does, as something wrong in him. There's nothing wrong or broken or anything like that. There just is, perhaps, something neither of them has figured out how to care for yet. He's better at it now than he was back then, but that has less to do with having an actual understanding, and more to do with having a better idea now of what not to do. Like so much else, there are no easy answers here. If he wanted easy, though, he never would have been with J in the first place, and actually being with him is easy, as natural as breathing and just as vital.

"It felt like it was," he says, a gentle amendment to his own words. It seems like the best middle ground, leaving neither of them right and neither of them wrong. He doesn't know if it's true that there would always have been something, but he doesn't know that it's not true, either. He just knows the way it did play out, with the thing that once brought them together driving an ever-growing wedge between them, their shared love of music ultimately a breeding ground for resentment. Of course he couldn't love music anymore when his playing and composing only seemed to make things worse. Of course he could barely bring himself, after J left, to sit at the piano where they shared their first kiss and so much else besides.

His thumb strokes the back of J's hand, soft and reassuring, contact just for the sake of it. It's definitely past the end of his shift, but he doubts anyone is going to come wandering in when they would usually be closed right now, and he can quickly send them away if they do. As much as he would rather be at home right now, he's not going to cut this conversation off in the middle. It's taken them too long to discuss this in any depth at all. "It was part of it. The only part I really knew about then."

J feels a pang of guilt at that, realizing he's yet again gotten too caught up in his own hurt to see he was missing the point. It's not about whether or not music caused the rift between them or simply worsened it. That connection existed regardless, and of course S reacted that way, felt it that way. Sniffling, he shifts a little so he can turn toward S, head tucked onto his shoulder. It's frightening, how many ways he's still the same as he was then. He's gotten somewhat better at managing it all, and some of the pressure that made him worse has been taken away, but it's all still there.

"I didn't see it that way," he murmurs. "There was a lot I didn't see. I should have, but..." He sighs, eyes closing tight, and focuses for a moment on what he can feel: the soft warmth of S's breath, the gentle pressure of his thumb against J's skin, the solidness of his shoulder beneath J's cheek and pressed into his side, the way their bodies jut into each other, not awkward as they should be, just right. He's here now, sitting at a piano finer than any he could have ever hoped to own, and what he did then is past. It won't ever go away, but it's over now, and it doesn't matter very much what he should have done. As hard as it is to make himself remember and believe, it really doesn't. He can't change any of it. But S is still here, still real and whole, still loving him, and they're okay. "I couldn't have. I didn't see anything the way it was then. But I knew I was losing... this. I thought it was forever. But it's not, it wasn't, or we wouldn't be here now."

If he'd known back then, he thinks, that there was a version of his future that looked like this — well, doubtless he wouldn't have believed it, for a vast number of reasons, but if he had, if he'd known, this wouldn't have needed to exist at all. But that's the problem, he thinks. Back then, what he thought he knew wasn't real, just a lot of fears both rational and mostly otherwise bundled together into what he thought was true. If he'd been able to see to the actual fact of what was around him, he wouldn't have been so afraid to tell S how afraid he was of everything else. Changing that, being able to talk to S about all of this, even if it's still intensely difficult sometimes, has made all the difference.

S instinctively shakes his head, though it's not much of a movement when he doesn't want to pull away or put any distance between them. He knows, because they've talked about it at length, that J came to believe a lot of things that weren't true back then. To him, though, this one is the most unfathomable, and the most heartbreaking. Even now, a year later and having been told otherwise, it's hard not to wonder what he got so wrong for J to think he could ever lose this. After the painful mess that everything was before, after J attempting to kill him, after he did kill others, S is still here, and he wouldn't have considered being anywhere else. Back then, of course, he didn't have the first idea what was ahead of them, but in not being able to imagine it, he would have said the same thing he'd say now — that J could never lose him, that there's nothing that could change his mind.

"You never lost me," he murmurs, because he can't say nothing. Lifting their entwined hands, he brushes a kiss against J's knuckles, absent and tender. "You never could." After J left, he was still there, still waiting, still his. Maybe it was pathetic of him, but he never had it in him to give up or walk away. On the contrary, he thought he lost this. He knew without a doubt that he did, those last few months before he got here, facing down an existence without J in it at all. Like J has just said, he thought it was forever, too. He could never be half as relieved to be wrong about anything else as he is to have been wrong about that, and he's been wrong about so much. "There was a lot I didn't see, either."

On some level, he knows that he couldn't have. All he could do was work with what J was willing to tell him, to show him, and they weren't talking back then like they are now. When he knows that's part of what's made this past year so good, their relationship stronger than it's ever been, he feels stupid all over again for not having said what was on his mind about piano, but he can't fix that now. There's nothing left to do but be glad it's out in the open at last, no matter how much crying it might have involved. "At least we're smarter now. Still very stupid, but smarter than we were then."

For a few moments, J thinks he's gotten himself under control, but that sets him off again, his lips pressed tight together, tears too hot down his cheeks. He was so stupid. He was stupid and cruel and blind, and they paid so dearly for it. If he knew nothing else in all the world, he should have known S would never stop loving him, and he can only call it proof of how far apart he fell that he ever thought otherwise. Even now, he wants to believe he'd never make that mistake again, the evidence of this last year too powerful to deny, but he's not sure. It's hard to imagine now that he could ever doubt this again, but he would have thought, in the months before he started to crumble, that he could never doubt it at all. It's scary to know how easily everything he relies on can break down, if only and most potently within his own mind.

"A little," he says, hoarse, trying hard to crack a smile, though it comes out embarrassingly wobbly. He sniffs, struggling to find his words or even the ability to speak, his throat gone rough and tight. "I'm trying not to say," he admits after a moment, "that I don't deserve that." The loyalty and love S has shown him, the depth of grace and forgiveness — J knows it for what it is now, an act of devotion and courage at the same time that it's as natural and automatic and unthinking as breath, and he doesn't know how to show how thankful he is that S has that strength and that instinct alike. It's hard to think he's done or been anything at all that would merit that. He's done an awful lot that wouldn't. At the end of it, though, it's S's choice and S's heart, and he knows S sees in him so much that J simply can't. He's trying so hard just to let himself have this, not to argue or debate, just to let S love him.

He's worked, too, to be better and do more so that, whether or not S thinks it's necessary, he can feel for himself that he's more worthy of the luck and love he's been given. It can't be like before. "It doesn't matter," he adds, "if I do or not. I want it either way. To be loved by you like this. With or without music."

At least on that last part, the two of them are entirely in agreement. It was true for S long ago, too, from the very beginning, but it's only become truer this past year. Between getting this impossible chance to have a life with J again and having spent the last year or so believing that giving up the piano was the best thing he could do, he's acutely aware of both parts of that — that he wants this, and he wants it with or without music. From where he's standing, he didn't walk away from it because he felt forced into it or because he thought J would want that of him. He chose it for himself, and even when he sometimes desperately missed playing, he was no less content and knows he would have stayed that way. It doesn't matter if he makes music or not, if they have money or they're flat broke, if they're out or closeted. A life with J is all he's ever really wanted. Everything else is an incredible bonus, nothing he takes lightly but nothing that would ever begin to change his mind, either.

As for who deserves what, he's not sure that's something he can determine. He is sure, however, that he doesn't care. It's not about that and it never has been. Likewise, he can say without hesitation that J does deserve better than the world gave him, and that for his own part, he feels the way he feels, an unshakable, instinctive adoration that's followed him since they were children, long before he knew the depth of or had the words to define it. They know what they want, and what they want is each other. That, as far as he's concerned, is the beginning and the end of it.

"Good," he murmurs, voice little more than an exhale, any attempt at levity falling completely short. As much as he doesn't want to put any distance between them, he shifts just slightly, enough that he can turn his head and look at J, one hand lifting to J's cheek to brush away a few stray tears. "Because you'd have it either way. I couldn't change it if I wanted to, and I'd never want to." Not for the first time and almost certainly not for the last, he thinks that if nothing has made that happen yet, then nothing ever will. "It's all I want, too. With or without music. Just this. You."

For so, so long, J felt uncertain of nearly everything except his own failures. Here, though, little by little, he's had the chance to regain his confidence. If there's anything he's sure of, it's this. Tipping his head into S's cheek, he nods, his gaze lowered because if he meets S's eyes before he's pulled himself together, he'll probably start sobbing for no reason at all. It's just that this has been such a long time coming, something he thought he'd never have again. He was so certain it was his own fault. To some extent, it was, because he was too afraid to make his worries clear or voice his fears; this could have happened much sooner if he hadn't let guilt get the better of him. He's really tried to tell himself that it doesn't matter how long it takes them to get somewhere as long as they get there, tried to curb the regret of all the lost time, and he's mostly succeeded, at least most of the time. It still takes a while to apply that understanding to each new occurrence.

Even so, there's relief, too, a lot of it. They made it here when he thought they never would. He was wrong, as he so often is, but in a way that makes him thankful to have been wrong. And when S is so close that J can feel his breath when he speaks, when he's saying such sweet things, it's a little easier to let himself get distracted from the lingering hurt that he's still trying to pull away from. Instead he leans closer, nose nudging S's, resting their foreheads gently together. "I love you," he murmurs, brushing a soft kiss against S's lips. "You can have both. If you want it. We can have both. But you're all I need."

The last year has proven that pretty thoroughly. On one hand, J knows, they've been incredibly lucky and that's extended past the impossible and into day-to-day things he didn't think they'd get to have that have made life much, much easier. In every material way, they're better off than they were before. Money is less of a concern, their safety isn't the worry it once was, and their home is more than spacious enough for two. But he knows even so that he'd take the cramped studio and a hidden love in a heartbeat, even if they never played again, as long as he could have S. He made a mistake before, he knows that. But he also knows now that he can survive things he didn't think were survivable, and that he can live happily without the piano. He still feels its absence, but not in any way he can't handle. Not like he feels S's absence when they're apart. It's not a trade he'd ever make again.

This past year, S really has been convinced that that couldn't be true. Really, he started to feel it long before then. As piano started coming between him and J, his efforts to recapture what seemed to be slipping away from them only ever making things worse, S wanted to show J somehow that it didn't have to be a choice. Instead, he wound up with neither music nor his boyfriend, only a gradually increasing sense that he should have walked away from piano sooner. It would have been worth it to be with J. It has been here, such that he hasn't really thought twice about it. Even when it's hurt, even when he's missed it, nothing has ever made him question that choice. The idea now that he could have both if he wants to — he has no way of being able to determine if he does, so convinced has he been that he couldn't.

He doesn't want to talk in circles, though, or to make J feel guiltier. Emphasizing just how certain he was that that wasn't a possibility seems likely only to do both. The decision he made wasn't forced on him, after all. He chose it for himself, and he doesn't want J to think that he blames him for it at all. S knows better now. All they can do is go forward from here, whatever that winds up looking like.

First, for now, he thinks it means being as honest as he can. Leaning his forehead against J's in turn, S takes a long, slow breath, just savoring their closeness for a moment. They've sat just like this so many times, tucked close together on a piano bench, angled toward each other. If absolutely nothing else, it feels right to be here again now. They wouldn't have needed it, but that doesn't mean it isn't nice to have it.

"I don't know what I want," he admits, brushing back a strand of J's hair, anything to keep idly touching him. "I don't know what it would look like now if I did have both. But you're all I need, too. That's the part that really matters." It isn't as if he's lost music entirely, after all. He plays at work, the very thing that started them having this conversation in the first place. Really, he's not sure he could stomach pursuing the career he once wanted if J wasn't doing so, too. Just the thought of it makes him feel like he would be stealing something. Maybe that will fade, though. Maybe this can be something for both of them again. "I love you. So much."

After all the crying and the wild emotions, even the best outcomes leave J feeling small and fragile. It's hard not to be overcome by the moment, lost in how S touches him, gentle and absent; even if he hadn't said that just now, J would feel it, how loved he is. Before they met, J didn't know what that could feel like, having someone at his side no matter what.

He hasn't known either, all year, what he wants. It's hard to know. There's been so much to work through and against, and so much of what he loved most in his life has been tainted in some way or another. He was so sure for so long of who he was and who he wanted to be, what he wanted to do. Figuring out how to live with that while not wholly distracted by his own mind falling apart is a struggle, but he's trying. "I love you," he whispers, voice thick, and swallows hard. "You'll figure it out. Whatever you find yourself wanting, I'm here."

S did that for him, after all, practically from the moment they met. He had a faith in J that J has never understood, and he believed in J even when J was breaking down, losing his own certainty. Changing their future isn't as simple as just willing it to be, as announcing his intentions, but it's a start, and he's determined to do better.

"I know," S murmurs, nuzzling against J's cheek for a moment, his voice quiet in the emptiness of the room around them. Still in the back of his head is the knowledge that he needs to finish closing up so they can go home, but this has all been far too important to rush, and he's not ready to move away yet. It's not likely anyone will come wandering in when they'd typically be closed, anyway. They can sit here a while longer, like they used to so often, like they haven't in so long, taking in this simple, seismic shift. He knew he missed this, but he didn't know how much.

He's said that, too, he's pretty sure, but the fact and the extent of it keep catching him off-guard. It seemed so impossible that he put it out of his head, but now, being here, he realizes how much difference this alone makes. Even if he never does anything more than occasionally play for fun, at least he can do so now with J beside him. That's all he ever really wanted in the first place.

Brushing the ghost of a kiss against the corner of J's mouth, S leans back just enough to look at him, to meet his gaze. He needs J to know how much he means this, how deeply sincere he is. "I know you are." In the time they've been here, J has been nothing but supportive, and while there may have been a time when that wasn't true, it was ages ago now — in J's case, a literal other lifetime. Whatever he does, J will be here, the way it always should have been. "Me too."