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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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."

J can't, however much he wishes he could, control the way he trembles, jaw shaking slightly, eyes wide, heart aching. He doesn't know why that affects him so much, why it means so much, not off the top of his head. He only knows that it does. After all they've gone through together, after all he did to them, it matters deeply.

He can't hide that. For a long time, he tried once again to bury his emotions, afraid to let himself be so vulnerable, even with S. Even when he first came here, his passionate outbursts weren't motivated so much by openness as an inability to keep things in when he was hurting so terribly. He doesn't want to hide things anymore, though, not from S. He hasn't wanted to in a long time, except when he's done stupid things like keep his feelings on this matter to himself, thinking he was helping them. Maybe that's what it is. He spent so long doing anything but supporting S. Then, here, he's tried to be there for him, but sometimes he feels like it's backfired or he simply hasn't been very good at it, too exhausted or emotional or lost in his own head to be as present as he wants to be. And it's not like it surprises him that S sees it all the same, but there's such an overwhelming sense of relief at knowing he does.

"I know," he murmurs, nodding. He draws in a sharp, shaky breath, sniffling quietly, and shakes his head. "I'm glad you know." Taking a moment, he closes his eyes tight, nose wrinkling up in an expression at once frustrated and resigned. "Ah, can't I talk about anything important without crying? I'm just glad, darling. I really did think I — ah, I don't know, I thought it was another thing I broke. And I hoped it was enough, but I didn't know. I feel like I'm not good at it anymore. There's too much in my head for me to be very supportive. I'm glad I am anyway."

Even before J has finished speaking, S shakes his head, though he listens, waiting until J has finished before he speaks up. For him, though, that couldn't be further from the truth. Yes, there was a time when things weren't good between them, when J seemed to feel threatened by or angry about anything he did rather than supportive or encouraging. In the grand scheme of things, though, that was only a tiny fragment of their relationship, a significant but ultimately short span of time, easily outweighed by all the rest of it. Not prone to the same dramatics as J, S wouldn't go so far as to say that he wouldn't have survived his parents' deaths without J there with him, but he would have been much worse off, alone in the world and without any choice but to leave home. Except for that one bad year, J has always been there for him. That, at least, is how S has always seen it.

"I think you're better at being supportive than you think you are," he murmurs, lifting his hand so he can brush an errant tear off J's cheek with his knuckle. "You're here. And when something matters to you, you care so much." Ever since they were children, S has considered himself lucky to be on that list. It was one of the things that made him realize he'd fallen in love with J — how passionate he could be, how dedicated. His being supportive is just a different aspect of the same thing, really. "You definitely didn't break it."

What's held S back has been himself, really. Maybe some of it may have been for J's sake, but not because he thought J wanted it a certain way or that he might get angry. The few times it's come up, J has been the one who wanted him to have that option. That, he thinks, unquestionably counts as being supportive.

J really wants to calm himself down. He wants to go home and stay wrapped up in S's arms all night, and he can't leave this place until he's a bit more put together, but he didn't mean to make S come here and stay late at work or keep him from closing up. He doesn't want to budge, not when S is gently wiping away his tears and looking at him like that, but, really, S can do that at home, too.

It's just not likely to happen any time soon. Try as J might, he can't keep from tearing up yet again. It's not his fault, he's pretty sure. He doesn't see how anyone could help it in the face of something like this, S speaking softly all the things J's been afraid to want to hear. It's such a relief it doesn't quite feel real and it hurts and it's wonderful, all at the same time. Granted, that comes out of him in these stupid little whimpers and hitching breaths as he tries not to let himself get overwhelmed and only succeeds in further overwhelming himself. He's just fucked up so much and so badly in so many ways that it's hard to believe, sometimes, that he hasn't ruined everything, even when the proof is sitting in front of him, real and beautiful and his. He doesn't know if he'll ever entirely move beyond that, but it's progress enough that they can sit here at all and that he can believe what S says is true.

"You matter to me," he manages, shaking his head, after a few moments of catching his breath. "And you think I'm better at a lot of things than I do. I'm..." He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out what he's trying to say. Sighing, he shrugs a little. "I miss when I believed in me so much." Even then, he knows, he had his doubts. He was better, though, at pushing his way through them, and better at recognizing the things he did well. He felt a need to prove himself, but he didn't doubt he was capable of doing so. He knows S liked that confidence, admired him for it, and it's both comforting to find that S doesn't like him any less now he lacks it, even if he wishes he didn't need to know that.

Sniffling again, he lets out another sigh, leaning close to press his forehead to S's. "I missed this, too," he says, soft as an exhale. "Just being with you like this. Hearing you play. It means so much, darling."

S feels pretty stupid now for how unexpected the very fact of that is. Until today, he wouldn't have thought J would want to hear him play, and certainly not that he would be so touched by it. As much as it's hurt to get here, though, old worries laid bare, this might just be the best possible outcome. Forehead resting against J's, he nods just enough that he won't have to pull away to do so, fingers finding J's again, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. At least the first part of what he's said isn't surprising, as much as it hurts to hear. S still doesn't know what happened there, what changed, only that J went from being anxious but confident to just anxious. He would find a way to change that if he could, but he doesn't want to make it sound like he preferred J then. It's for J's sake that he wishes he could find a way to bring that back, not his own.

"I miss when you did, too," he admits, leaning in to press a kiss to J's cheek. "But I'll just have to believe in you enough for both of us." He does; he always has. Even when they were children, there was a part of him that wanted to protect J, but a part that was awed by him, and by getting to be around him. For S, that's never changed. No matter what either of them chooses to do next, whether the piano is part of it or not, he knows that will never change.

Taking a breath, he weighs his words for a moment. The last thing he wants is to make them both even more emotional again instead of helping them settle down, but he can't hear something like that and not address it. "And it... means a lot to me that it means a lot to you," he says, nose scrunching a little at the awkwardness of how it comes out. There's no good way to say it, really, but it's true. It means the world to have J sit here beside him, wanting him to play, not making it a source of arguments or resentment anymore but instead saying he's grateful for it. S meant what he said before, that he didn't know how much he missed this, that he didn't let himself. He could never touch a piano again after this, and it would still feel like something has been set right, put back the way it should have been. "Really. I... Knowing that you want that..."

Gently clasping S's hand, J closes his eyes, letting the words sweep over him with all the hurt and gratitude they bring. It would be nice if he could just say that of course he does, of course he wants to hear S play, just as he did when they were kids. It would be nice, but it would be ridiculous. He's blind to a lot of things, but it's impossible for J to be oblivious to this. He's too keenly aware of the damage he caused before not to understand why S isn't used to this anymore, why he couldn't have assumed that J would want this, no matter how J has tried to encourage him since he came here. Even with that, after all, there must be a difference between knowing J accepts his playing and understanding J would want to hear it. It hurts that he caused this, but at least maybe this means they've moved past it somewhat.

"I do," he murmurs. "I have for a long time. I'm sorry I didn't say so." He has to bite his lip to keep himself from continuing. There's no point in saying again that he didn't want to pressure S or that S doesn't have to play for him after this if he decides he doesn't want to. They've covered that, and, anyway, it's pretty clear that S is perfectly willing to play now they've crossed that bridge. For that matter, it's probably ridiculous to keep apologizing, but he can't help it. It's regrettable that he kept it to himself for so long. He just has to hope that, next time, he actually learns from this.

He has learned, he thinks, no matter what he said before. Maybe it's less than he'd like, but it's happening. "It's better, you know," he adds after a moment. "I don't know if I'll ever feel like I did before, but... you help me believe in myself a little more. And maybe this —" He gestures to the piano briefly with his free hand, bringing it back to cover S's a moment later. "Won't be either, but... this feels good."

The last thing S wants right now is another apology, but he bites back the instinct to say so. It wouldn't be worth talking in circles again about it, and the fact of the matter is, he does wish J had said so sooner, even if he understands why he didn't, just like he wishes he'd said something sooner himself, and knows he had a good reason to hold back. Even now, they're a mess. He stands by what he said a little while ago, though. Maybe they didn't get this right, but they've worked their way through it now. They do learn, just more slowly than they probably should. In all fairness, they've been through hell, too, both together and apart. Of course they might struggle with things that once came easily; of course certain subjects might be more difficult to broach. They've both tried, he thinks, him encouraging J at Kagura, J giving him sheet music for Christmas, but without talking about it, of course they both would have made the assumptions they did.

It's easier to cut himself a little slack in that regard when he thinks about it being true for both of them rather than something he got wrong. As much as it hurts to think about what J mistakenly believed instead, S knows he had every reason to think that J wouldn't be comfortable hearing him play. With all the trouble it caused between them for so long, he's still not sure how he feels about what to do next. He does, though, think that they'll be better for having it out in the open, the biggest hurdle behind them now.

"Good," he replies, hand curling around J's again. What he doesn't say is that he thinks it's probably better for both of them if it wasn't what it once was. At least this way, letting it be something new, there's a chance for it to be something at all. "Both of those things. That has to count for something, right? That it feels good."

J nods, small and quick, heart stinging but soothed. "I didn't know if it ever would again," he says, his voice soft, as much from how wrung out he is by all the crying as from a kind of nervousness that comes with talking about these things. S will listen well, he knows, but there's something almost superstitious in his head about it, like he'll undermine their good work if he acknowledges certain kinds of progress. He bites his lip, shrugging ever so slightly. "It's still so complicated, and I was so worried. I thought maybe we could never sit comfortably like this again. It counts for a lot."

For a little while, he felt alright about playing — better than alright when he was actually at the piano, though he restricted himself to simple pieces for brief whiles at Kagura — but a spell of his old moods and the closing of Kagura have put a dent in that. It's better than it was, but having not had the chance in a while, he's feeling the uncertainty again. At least now he has concrete proof that he can play without it being a problem. He just isn't sure what happens if he lets himself do more, if he finds a way to play more often, if he ever tried to write again. He's not sure he should want to or if he does want to or if he even could. In spite of everything this last year, though, he also still feels like he's trying to figure out who he even is. Music defined him for so long, and he doesn't have anything like that anymore. Photography has, mercifully, stayed simply a hobby — one he's been fairly passionate about studying, but not all-consuming, just enjoyable. He doesn't really know any other way to pursue something, is all. And now the only thing in his life that really fills his days, his attention, his dreams, is S, and he can't be that. Loving S helps to shape who he is, and he builds his future around that, but it's not his whole identity, nor could it be. But to let music be that again would be to court disaster. Maybe it's dramatic to consider it as something that could be dangerous. Certainly, since he came here, he hasn't felt any kind of an impulse to harm anyone other than himself. But he's not sure it's all that dramatic, and it's not something worth taking big risks on.

S isn't wrong entirely. He has to admit that. If S truly pursued playing and J didn't even let himself try, he'd be jealous, and that would be a problem. After all, before this, when he was first feeling that way, he knew it was his own inadequacy that upset him. Surely the same would be true if the thing restraining him were madness rather than mediocrity. But he also knows S enough to know that it's unlikely he'd ever seek out the kind of career that would make J really envious, and maybe with it being a slightly less fraught subject in at least one way, he'll feel better equipped to keep trying, too. Besides, they're better equipped in other ways, he's certain of that. He may have kept this to himself, but he's improved, he knows he has, at telling S when something's wrong. If he can maintain that honesty, they'll be okay.

"Ah," he says after a moment, shaking his head, "but how do you feel? You missed it, you said. Was it good?"

Even now — even having been the one who was playing in the first place — S isn't expecting at all to have the focus swung back to him and how he feels. For him, it's never really been about that, which is maybe part of the problem. He's never let it be. Missing it is one thing, and playing here in fits and starts, but doing so with something like intent and J at his side after so long is very, very different. That last time when he went to see J, despite what he'd said on his way over to the piano, S thought that would be the last time after all, ending definitively and painfully, with nothing but discord. As glad as he is to have been wrong, there's an extent to which he still hasn't processed it yet. This whole last while, since J first found him in here, has been so fraught and emotional, and though his current composure may be somewhat more steady than J's, underneath that, he still feels shaken. It's not a bad feeling, really, just that he hasn't caught up yet, struggling to find equilibrium after dealing with something so huge.

It might not have gotten so big, though, if they'd just fucking talked about it sooner. With that in mind, he figures the best thing he can do is be honest. "I think so," he murmurs, glancing down for a moment at where his and J's hands are entwined, his thumb brushing against J's knuckles. "I'm not really sure how I feel yet. I know I don't feel bad. It's just... a lot." Realizing even as he speaks that those words could be too easily misconstrued, he lifts their hands then, pressing a soft kiss to the back of J's. "Not because of you. This... the being here with you part, that feels good. It's just me and the piano that I still have to figure out, I think."

After all, it's been so long since he loved it. Before J moved out, he was trying to get back to the way things used to be, wanting to remind J of what was good between them, but his passion for music was already fading. Maybe that started even before the first cracks formed in their relationship. That much might well have been the professor, and the knowledge that the pieces he wrote, someone else would be taking credit for. He still played after J moved out, but his heart wasn't in it. Then, recovering from surgery, not knowing yet what actually happened, he could barely stomach having the instrument around at all. When he finally did start playing again, it was to play J's stolen piece, and that was out of sheer determination. The music broke his heart, but he played then for J, not for himself, not really. That much, he still has to find again. "But it's... it's nice to at least know that I can. Not just try to shut myself off from it."

Despite all they've discussed, J has to steel himself for S's response, unsure of what he means until he explains himself. The truth of it hurts, too, but it's better than his instinctive fear, the uncertainty that comes from inside of him, and he's thankful he managed to hold himself together. He trusts S in a way he still doesn't and might never trust himself, but that doesn't always mean much against the weight of irrational fear — not, at least, as much as he knows they both wish it did.

He's busy wishing, too, that S had never had to feel that way, feeling, as always, a little guilty for his role in it, until something about the wording turns on a light in the back of his head. It's familiar, is what it is, and he nods absently before he's pieced together his words. "I think," he says, slow even though he's really thinking out loud, "I'm still doing that." He has to. And the thing is, he doesn't, not really, but if he rushes in all at once — it's frightening and it's too much and he's steadier than he once was by far, but he's still unsure and shaky even on his better days. If he lets it all in, he doesn't know how he'd cope or what he'd do, and he's too afraid to find out, but keeping it all at bay doesn't feel natural either.

"It's a lot," he echoes, nodding again. When he's entirely rational about it, after all, he knows that the piano wasn't the real problem, and so keeping himself apart from music serves little real purpose. But that's worse, actually, much worse, and it's not like the piano helped. "But you can. And you have time. You'll figure it out when you're ready, darling." He hopes he will, too, but, these days, figuring out much of anything feels a long way off.

Although it's hardly a revelation in itself, something they've talked about enough for him to have already been aware of it, S still finds himself slightly surprised by what J says. Until now, he never considered it like that, the two of them, as they've so often done, winding up in the same place, just taking entirely different routes to get there. J, he knows, has been worried about what might happen if he leaned wholeheartedly into music again; as much as S trusts him, he can't blame J for not feeling secure in that. For himself, it's just seemed easier to keep it at a distance. He hasn't loved it enough to feel like he was losing anything in not pursuing it anymore, but he hasn't let himself love it, either. This, here, despite how emotional they've both been, is the first time in a long time he's felt even a fraction of what he used to when they played with or for each other.

It's still hard to know how to go forward or what he wants. Even when things were at their best, he never really had J's ambition, and he has even less interest in acclaim now than he did back then. It wouldn't feel right to stoke that fire. Any playing he does will be for himself, for them. That's all he ever really cared about anyway.

"We both will," he murmurs, giving J's hand a gentle squeeze. "We'll figure it out together." Maybe that's the piece that's been missing for both of them, that's made this feel so insurmountable. They've both tried to encourage each other when they could, but if having this together seemed so off-limits, it's no wonder he's been at such a loss. "I really have missed this."

It's been a strange journey, figuring out where he stands in regards to music, and he has a lot more to learn and determined. It still feels wrong to J that it's like this, but he knows it's something where he really can't just rush back in. That hurts, too, not just because he devoted so much of his life — too much of it — to music, but because it's tinged so many of the happiest memories of his life with uncertainty. It used to be where he felt safest and most confident, and now it's entirely the opposite. When he does play, he feels a little of that again — not the confidence, necessarily, but the sense of it being right that he missed for a long, long time. Even so, it's too complicated for him to dive back in and start playing again or writing all at once.

This, though, this is simple, all of the complexity nudged aside in the face of what S says. He nods, small, leaning his face against S's shoulder. "Me too," he murmurs. S's patience with him and his quiet support are the main reasons, he's fairly sure, that he's able to sit here at all, at peace enough not to be frightened of the very fact of sitting in front of a piano. Tilting his head up, he leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to S's jaw. "Next time," he adds, just as hushed, "let's play together."

He wants that, he thinks, very badly. And maybe that's why he spent all this time afraid that S didn't want him here, that he'd only think of that last time they played together — because he wanted it. Because he wished he could go back and do everything differently, that he hadn't slammed the keys or walked away. Right now, though, despite how well this has ultimately turned out, his emotions are too wild, his nerves shot, and he doesn't think he could handle playing at all, never mind taking such a big step. Still, it feels good to talk about the future in any form, and to think that they could have that.

Even now, with everything that's happened this evening, S isn't expecting J to say that. For a moment, he goes still, as if trying to be sure he's heard right, drawing in a small, audible breath, but he nods immediately after. He doesn't want to give J the wrong idea; he doesn't want to start thinking too much about what happened the last time they played together, a wound that's never fully healed. J apologized for it that first time they went to Kagura, but S already knew that he was sorry, and he wouldn't have needed to hear it. That may even have been the least fucked up thing that happened that horrible night, but it's stayed with him all the same, how it felt like such a definitive rejection — not just in the present, but of their past, of all the meaning with which that song was imbued and all the times they'd played together before.

Of course he wants to change that, deeply earnest as he tilts his head to try to catch J's gaze again. "I'd really like that," he whispers, thumb stroking the back of J's hand where their fingers are still entwined. Just the idea of a next time, the implicit, quiet promise there, is remarkably powerful. Having a next time that they could share is even more so, one more thing that he really thought he would never have again. They've already been wrong about that a lot of times, in a lot of ways, but for J to play again at all was such a huge step in itself. S never considered the possibility of more than that — that J might want to hear him, might want to play with him. "I never loved playing as much as I did when I played with you."

He's been remarkably composed this past while, trying to keep it together for J's sake, if nothing else. It feels phenomenally stupid, then, that it's his own words that make his breath catch in his throat and his eyes sting. That's what's been missing, though, at least in part. He loved it, but he loved it most because it was theirs. Of course, with that piece of it taken away, it's been hollow. Of course it aches to have even just a tiny part of that back.

Over and over again, J finds himself frightened, and it frustrates him so much. There's nothing to be afraid of when it comes to things like this. He knows now, in a way he didn't before he came here, that S would never reject him or push him away or think less of him. He knows that, on some level, he's only afraid because he knows how badly he's behaved in the past when it's been his turn to step up and provide support, to listen and encourage and accept. It's his own behavior he imagines, not S's, and still he gets scared, nervous when he says things like this. It's something else, he thinks, that was taken from him by whatever happened to make him the way he is. Wanting things — admitting to wanting things — can be terrifying when he's seen how destructive that can be.

So it takes him a moment to look up, though he can feel S trying to meet his eyes, part of him afraid to be told no, he fucked things up too much to be allowed that, and afraid, too, that he'll start crying if he's told yes. What he finds instead, as he looks up at S, is relief, an awe that flutters through his chest. That's not what makes him tear up this time. It's seeing the way S's eyes go glassy when he says that, the way his control wavers, how earnestly he says that.

He loved music in so many permutations, played alone or together, with S or his mother, for an audience or with no one else to hear. He wrote his story with these keys rather than those of a typewriter, and he let himself become powerful, just as he let himself be vulnerable, too, in ways he's only ever otherwise been with S. His relationship with music shaped him long before he went to school for it, long before the Gloria Artis and the professor. There have been other times, he thinks, that he enjoyed it as much as he did with S, but very few of them and almost entirely with his mother.

And even then, thinking on it now, he knows that there's more to it than that. "I know," he murmurs, nodding, squeezing S's hand in return. He lifts their hands together, presses a kiss to S's knuckles. "That was... that was the proudest I ever was, I think. The happiest. When I wrote that song and... and you liked it. And you smiled when I knew that was hard, and I realized, ah, I have that power too. I can make music that means something too, that makes things better for him, just for a moment. That was the best."

Although he's never once judged J for being emotional, S feels unbelievably stupid when a few tears spill over down his cheeks again, his breath a trembling exhale. It's not like he didn't know all of that meant something to J, too. It just got lost somewhere, he thinks, under the ambition and the fights, the way J seemed to hate him for playing and composing and to believe that nothing of his own was good enough. To S, he'd already done enough. J was the one who helped get him through those awful months following the loss of his parents, and S knows he would have done so even if neither of them had ever been musically inclined. Still, it meant the world that he went to those lengths, writing that song at least in part to try to cheer him up. It got him to smile when nothing and no one else could; it shaped the rest of his life, or at least the few years that have followed, moving him enough that he was inspired to try his hand at writing, too.

For a while since then, S has started to regret that he ever did so, wondering if everything would have been easier if he'd just left piano and composing to J. This, though, reminds him of why he chose that. No matter how much he'd loved music already, he hadn't realized just how much difference one piece could make. In a way, this isn't so different. All they're doing is sitting here; there's no one watching them, no one around to hear anything either of them might play. He played the first part of an old favorite piece of his, out of practice and without finishing it. And yet it's made all the difference in the world just to be here together, like they used to be so often. They shared their first kiss sitting at a piano like this, and countless hours both before and after. It hasn't felt, this past year, like their relationship has been missing anything, but being here together now feels, in a way, like coming home.

"I could tell you how much that meant to me," he says, sniffling, "but I think you already know." That much, he has to be certain of. He made no secret of it back then, after all, and the way J has framed it, all those pieces are bound up in each other — the music J wrote, the effect it had on S, how J felt as a result. "It's still my favorite. Always will be."

J nods, disentangling their hands just enough to free one, lifting it to S's cheek. Brushing his knuckles along that familiar curve, sweeping away tears, he leans in to kiss him, brief but utterly tender. His chest is tight, knots of old hurts pressing painfully against his lungs, but he's pretty sure all of this is a good thing in spite of that. It's just that it's impossible to talk about these things without brushing up against the scars and bruises of the past, or pulling apart something he didn't realize was wound up just so.

He can't pretend that what went wrong in him was just ambition. He was ambitious for a long time before he began to unravel, and he doesn't think that was intrinsically wrong or harmful. It was when things in his head went awry and he lost sight of the things that mattered most that he fell apart, when he let his ambition mingle with his insecurities and his fear of being insignificant swept away the heart of why he loved music to begin with. The heart of music's power is precisely this, the way he could write something that could make S feel a little better. How something of his could be someone's favorite song — his favorite person's favorite song, for that matter. Whether he ever had an audience or not, whether his name was known, none of it would signify if his music didn't say something, move someone. But he got so caught up in trying to prove he could do that, he stopped being able to. It's hard, he thinks, to write profoundly about things he'd never experienced, and he let himself think those were the things that became art. In truth, he sees now, nothing could be more powerful than writing something to coax light out of grief. He spent too long in shadows to understand it then.

"I was stupid," he says softly. "I let myself forget why I was so proud of that. This is what matters, how it makes us feel. How I could make you a little happier, how free I felt when I played. We shared it because it made it even better when we did. I was a fool to see it any other way." Still close, he tips his head forward again, kissing S's cheek this time, his hand cupping S's jaw. "It's my favorite thing I wrote, too. Just for you."

In the back of his head and the back of his throat are words that S knows he can never, ever say. Despite how much they've discussed even just in this last little while how much they need to talk to each other, this one thing has to stay off limits. Even if he wanted to, he doesn't know how he would possibly bring up J's last piece anyway, beyond what he's already told J about the professor stealing it and winning the Gloria Artis with it. Holding it back feels wrong, too, but he doesn't think any good would come from saying that he's heard it, that he's played it, that it was some of J's best work. That the movement J wrote for him broke his heart all over again. That he played it enough to commit much of it to memory. If he wanted to, which he very much doesn't, he could turn toward the keys again and play it now.

What worries him is the idea of seeming like he would be saying that what J did to write it was worth it. Despite the worries J has expressed, S knows it will never come to that again. It's just how it might make him sound, and how upsetting he can too easily imagine that being. It seems better, safer, just not to go there at all, to leave the sonata in the past, no matter how beautiful it might have been.

"Is this the part where I get to say I told you so?" he asks instead, the gentlest sort of teasing, the tip of his nose brushing J's when he leans forward to rest their foreheads together. He wouldn't really want to take that stance, and he hopes J knows it. It isn't that the past doesn't matter, but what matters infinitely more is that they're here now, having found a way to take back a little of something that was once so utterly theirs. For him, that was just always what drove him — not awards, not prestige, but just how he felt when he played, and then even more how he felt when he played with J. Really, it's no wonder that he fell out of love with it when he lost J. There was nothing good to be found in it anymore, just painful memories and longing. "You weren't stupid. Or if you were, we both were." He tilts his head just enough to press a kiss to J's hand where it sits against his jaw. "But maybe... maybe we'll be able to feel a little of that again."

Though J wants to protest, he lets it go, if only because he can hear something in S's voice that sounds like he might be smiling. J's too close to be sure, his eyes half-shut, warmth against his palm like an echo of that kiss. S wasn't stupid. He knows that. J is the one who messed things up. And he knows he can't just pretend that S got everything right, because he didn't, and it wouldn't be fair to say otherwise. At the end of it, though, S's mistakes were made with his not having much information to go off of, and they came from sincere love. He worked with what he knew, and J worked against everything he'd once understood.

Right now, though, he doesn't want to argue or retread threadbare disagreements. Stroking his thumb along S's cheek, he nods. "I want that," he says softly. "A little at a time, I think, and this is a start, isn't it?" He hesitates a moment, not so much doubting his words as uncertain how to string them together. "Maybe... maybe it'll make the rest of it easier. I'm still... unsure about playing sometimes." He knows S is aware of that, but it still bears saying. His comfort with playing wavers, especially now that it's been a while again. "I know it's ridiculous. It's not the piano's fault. But I think too much and it becomes difficult again. But... but like this, you and me, maybe it'll be easier."

To S, it doesn't seem ridiculous at all. Unnecessary, surely, and nothing he's worried about, but it isn't like he can't understand why J would be so uneasy about playing now. If anything, J's reluctance increases his own certainty. He would be a lot more concerned if J took the matter more lightly, impossible as that is even to imagine. He's always been, at least in S's mind, too hard on himself. Maybe it should be different where murder is concerned — maybe too hard on himself is a threshold that shouldn't exist under such circumstances — but S doesn't think so. Nothing good would come from J punishing himself forever, and that would be a wild oversimplification of what actually happened. It's not as if J just woke up one day and decided to kill people to fuel his compositions. The truth, as it so often is, is messier, far more complicated, sadder.

"Maybe it will," he agrees, his own voice soft in turn, a quiet but noticeable optimism there in the words. He thinks he's always been a little better at that than J has, or at least these last few years, but one of them needs to be able to look at things positively. If they could get this far, though, he can only take that as a sign that they might be able to get even just a little of that feeling back. It's more than he's had any reason to believe they would have again. "You can go as slow as you need. Always. And if you want to stop..." Maybe this isn't the time for what ifs, but it feels important to say anyway. "It won't change this. Us. Nothing will."

Though J doesn't really have a certain answer as to what he wants or where he wants to go with music from here, he's relatively sure he doesn't want to stop, not completely. It can't ever be what it was to him, for so many reasons, and maybe he won't ever feel comfortable enough to play in any serious way. Even if he did, he's not sure he should even be permitted to write. It doesn't sit easy in his chest, that thought, and that's not entirely to do with the reasons why he thinks that's so or the part of him that wishes he felt the way he once did about composing, felt that old confidence. It's partly just that he's always hated the idea of needed permission to do things. Too many people scolded him over the years for trivial matters. Too many people thought less of him for things that weren't anything to do with him. He wanted always to follow his own passions, and to hell with anyone else's opinions.

This is more, though, than quiet disobedience. When he wrote music, he invested too much of himself in it, and it ended in death. He may be doing much, much better here most of the time, but he can't guarantee he won't start to unravel again were he ever to try his hand at composition once more. It's frustrating to feel this way, but it's better, he knows, than his dashing in headlong the way he once would have and heading into disaster.

"I know," he says first, soft, nudging S's nose with his own. "I know that now. I... I don't want to stop. Not really. But slowly, yes, and... together maybe." He doesn't want to back S into feeling they have to play together now, that his heart is set on it. As much as he'd like it, as much as he knows S would too now, he still wants to leave room for S to change his mind for whatever reason. Still, even if they don't literally play together, they can sit together like this, and he thinks it would make a big difference. "I think I feel safer when you're with me." He huffs, shaking his head. "I know I do, but I mean with music specifically."

As difficult as it's been, having his own passion for music wane, watching J spend so long feeling unable even to touch a piano at all, in a way, S is grateful for that distance. Their relationship never existed without music before they wound up here, after all, and music was at least part of what ended it the first time around. To have come back together without it, both of them thinking they never would have that back, and to have rebuilt something even stronger, is deeply reassuring, and means more than he would know how to say. Nothing ever would have changed things for him anyway, but at least they both have seen firsthand now that it isn't a necessary facet of what they share. J chose music over him before. It's nice — and moving — to know that J would choose him now even without music in the picture at all.

And if it aches a little to consider J needing to feel safer when he plays, it's not as if S can't understand why that would be so. Nodding, it's his turn this time to lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of J's mouth, brief but tender. "If you do, then I'll be here," he murmurs. He doesn't add that he would have assumed the opposite, that J wouldn't have wanted him to be a part of any playing he did at all, not wanting to circle back to how terribly they misunderstood each other. Although he knows perfectly well now that there was far more going on that last night in Seoul than he was remotely aware of at the time, it's hard not to have been haunted by the way it ended when they played together then, how J couldn't even finish the piece without getting angry and rejecting him again. Of course, after everything, S could only assume that, if J played again at all, he wouldn't want to share it anymore. Again, and as with so much else, it's nice to have been wrong.

"We can try something like this again," he suggests, still staying close, careful to keep his voice low. "You can come around at closing, play when no one else is here. Just the two of us."