hismelody | (no subject)

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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S nods in turn, lifting one hand for a moment to smooth it over J's hair. Even with the dim awareness he has that it's ridiculous to be doing all of this at his work, he isn't about to hold back for a second. No one is here; no one is going to come in. In moments like this, it always tends to feel like the rest of the world may as well not exist, anyway. It's quiet, peaceful in spite of the turbulent emotions they've both been overwhelmed by, and it's just the two of them, the way it always should have been. He never should have let anything take this from them. It wasn't all on him, he knows that, but it's still too easy to think of the many, many things he could have done differently and the pain it might have spared them. Keeping his time at the piano here to himself was meant to be a way of combating that. He got that horribly wrong, too, but at least they have a chance to start to put it right now. Whatever it took to get them here, this feels like a good step.

"Okay," he echoes, hand finding J's again to give it a gentle squeeze. That has to be a good thing, too, J wanting to, even if he knows it's not as simple as just that. Maybe it never will be simple again, a thought that admittedly makes him a little sad, when it used to be the simplest thing in their lives. Through the chaos of his losing his parents, their moving in together, barely having enough money to get by, worrying about grades and college, the pressures of staying closeted, music was always there, simple and easy and right. Now, there's so much baggage attached to it instead. Still, however much the fact of that might hurt, it's better to let it become something new and figure out what that might be than to wish for things to go back to the way they were.

"How soon, do you think?" he asks. J might be trying to leave this at least somewhat in his hands, but it isn't a decision he feels wholly comfortable making. There's too much messy history there, and ultimately, it's about what J feels up to, anyway. "Later this week? Or next?"

J opens his mouth to answers, then pauses, making himself actually think about it first. His gaze darts away, as if looking elsewhere might prompt some other part of his brain to function better, willing himself to come up with the answer that will work out in spite of all his worries. Part of him, now that he's come this far, thinks it might be better to wait after all — not very long, just a week, enough time to let himself settle down. But then, he might only get wound up instead, he thinks. More time means more thinking. S is good at helping with that, but he can't be home with J all the time, and he can't stay up all night. It was a disaster even before he had a job.

"This week," he says, tentative, looking back at S. Uncertain though his voice may be, he's determined, mouth set in a small, firm line even as he presses S's hands again. "Or I'll think about it too much first. It's better to do it soon since I've made up my mind. And if I change my mind again, we can do it later, but I — I don't wait to put it off and decide I can't do it."

He wants this back. He's gotten so much back that he thought he'd never have again, and he feels rather greedy for wanting to add this to the list, but he didn't get as far as he did — before it all fell spectacularly apart — without demanding more and pushing himself. Their happiness was taken from them by circumstance, by the professor, by his own warped thoughts, and now they're clawing it back. He won't give this up altogether without trying when they've regained so much already. It's not like he wants to go back to how things were — when he can see through the doubt and the hurt and the frustration with himself, he knows they are, in fact, better and stronger even than they were before, and he's happy with that, proud even. But he doesn't think they should have to give up things they like, things that meant something to them, because of things that are gone or that he's worked to improve. They've conquered death and time, madness and mourning, and no small amount of trauma; they can have sex in a way he thought they couldn't again and he can play the piano without panicking, more or less, and they understand each other a little better all the time, something he didn't know was possible. They can do this too. He can play for S and S can play for him, and perhaps they'll be able to play together, the way they did when they were just kids, falling in love. If that means he frets for a couple days and battles his anxiety all the way to this bench, he'll do it.

A moment later, the fierceness dies away a bit, his nose wrinkling up, rueful. "If there's a chance, at least, for me to come here without it causing any trouble." They'd survive alright for a bit without S working, but he doesn't want to jeopardize this job even so. It helps them both, he thinks, for S to have something to do, for them to have a bit more financial security, and for him to have some space during the day.