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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S frowns, uncertain for a moment how to respond. The question is simple enough, and his answer should be, too. While he appreciates the offer, there really isn't much to be done or anything for J to do. Closing up isn't a particularly involved process. Even on the store's busiest days, it doesn't get particularly chaotic in here. Mostly, he just needs to make sure everything is still in place, and he gave it all a look, straightened up a bit, before he sat down to play anyway. He makes a point to give himself a chance to sit at a piano when he can, but it tends to be his last priority these days.

Right now, he wishes he hadn't touched it at all. He can hear in J's voice that something is wrong, and even as a part of him knows it's illogical, all S can think is that his playing must be the source of that upset. There may not be the jealousy and resentment from before, but there's still so much weight attached to this instrument and their relationships with it, in so many different ways. He hasn't played a piano around J since that night, for one, remembering too well now how J asked him to do so for the last time. In the moment, he'd been stubborn, masking desperation with flippancy, wanting so badly to connect with J somehow. Now, he supposes that it would have been the last time after all if J hadn't come by the shop today, should those few moments even be enough to count.

"Not really," he says, "but thank you. It's been quiet, there's not much to take care of." He pauses, takes a breath. Both talking about it and not talking about it seem like terrible ideas, so he has to pick one and just hope it's the less terrible of the two. "I'm sorry you came in just then. I just knew I had a few free minutes, so I thought I'd do something with it."

It would be worse, J knows, if he left, but he can't help feeling sorry he came in, too. He's upset and he can't stop that, even if he thinks he's wrong to be, and S knows him too well to miss it, which means S is going to be upset, too, very soon, if he isn't already. It makes J nervous, afraid he'll say something stupid or start crying when someone else might still be here, afraid he'll hurt S again, the way he always does.

He shakes his head again, the quiet in the room too loud. "No, no," he says. It's hard, trying to speak clearly, trying to say things the way he means them. "No, that's good. I'm glad you did. I didn't mean to interrupt." He wants to say he's sorry, can feel it caught in his throat, but he knows he shouldn't. S would tell him he doesn't need to, and he'd just feel worse somehow. He just doesn't know what else to do with this surge of guilt and grief.

He's had so many of those, of course, but there are different kinds, and this is a knot he has no idea of how to unravel, mostly because he doesn't think he can. This isn't something they can just talk out and fix. No discussion is going to put right his past actions. All he can do is just try to move through it. The last thing he wants is to let talking turn to venting that leads S to be afraid to play even in private. He's done too much harm already. Perhaps this is the least of it, but he's tired of it. It's impossible, he knows, to continue living his life and never hurt anyone at all in any way, and he knows it wouldn't help either of them for him to become some meek shadow of himself, always in agreement. Still, he just wants to do as little damage as he can with the rest of his life.

Which, of course, would be simpler if he had an easy reply at hand or the emotional fortitude not to be a whiny baby about this, but then he also doesn't want to lie to S or start hiding things again, so he's left with this, standing alone, awkward and miserable, ashamed and uncertain of what he's supposed to do or say. And, as usual, his best efforts come to nothing, his chin wobbling before he can help himself, head turning so he can try and maintain his composure, blurting out a shaky "Sorry. Really, I'm sorry."

Immediately, uselessly, S wishes they were home rather than here. This subject is one too emotional for them to be dealing with it here, at least while he knows they aren't the only ones in the store. He should text his coworker and tell her just to go, that he'll finish taking care of everything here, but even doing that seems like too much yet, a strange, uncomfortable tension hanging in the air, thick and oppressive and maybe just in his head. For the two of them to be alone would be better, but it still wouldn't really be right. The apartment is their space, one they've spent the past year turning into a home. It's safe, and it's familiar. This is decidedly his territory, somewhere he spends a significant portion of most days and that J has only stopped in briefly before. It makes this feel all the more unbalanced, the store suddenly too big and unwelcoming, what he was doing probably only making it more so. That, too, is something he has that J doesn't.

And S knows that isn't right, not really. J has played some, back when Kagura was still open. He's tried to give J opportunities to do so, or at least to feel like he safely can. Again, though, he can't help coming back to the thought that maybe he just shouldn't have been playing at all. J has never tried to stop him — the opposite, really, is true — but maybe for him just to have that opportunity while J won't allow it for himself is unfair. The whole situation is awful and confusing, and for maybe the millionth time in the last few years, S wonders how they even got here at all. Music used to be something they shared; it was one of the ways they fell in love. Now, instead, it feels like it can be only one of theirs at most. If that's going to be the case, though, then he thinks it should be J's.

He just doesn't know how to say that, at least not without making everything worse. He doesn't know what's wrong, either, and as such, he doesn't know how to fix it. Mouth still set in a frown, he curls his hands in once more, nails pressing to his palms, opening again a moment later. "You didn't do anything," he says, a gentle rebuttal, his voice soft. "I don't know what you're apologizing for." He should be the one apologizing, probably. He bites that back as best he can. "I'm — I didn't mean to upset you."

J closes his eyes, trying to make himself breathe more deeply, think more clearly. S is right, he realizes. Once again, J simply hasn't told him. He's always so sure in the moment that keeping it to himself is better, that there's no use in communicating these things. It's not that he thinks S will be upset with him or think less of him anymore, or that he thinks S doesn't deserve to know. He just doesn't see the point in debating things that can't be changed. That always seems like the right choice until he's reminded it is. If he were better at keeping it contained, that would be one thing, and really only when it's something that doesn't particularly impact them. Whether he likes it or not, though, this does, even if he can't quite articulate it, and it's not fair to stand here upset and apologizing and making S guess why.

That's especially so when S does what J does, too, assumes it's his own fault. They both do it, but it hurts J more coming from S, his heart constricting at those words. It's nothing like the past, but it feels familiar, and he doesn't want that. He can't bear that. "No," he says again, quick, shaking his head once more. "You didn't." He upset himself. All of this is his own fault, from the things he did that brought him here to his own inability to react rationally to that. That's part of what hurts so much. It didn't have to be like this. They could have shared this for the rest of their lives, but he cut all of it short, left it jagged and raw and unresolved and impossible to fix, and he can't help feeling guilty for feeling that way. Everything else in his life, everything outside his own head, is wonderful. Letting this go is one cost of that, and it's not fair or right to be upset about that.

He doesn't know how to say this. He doesn't know how to put it into words that will make sense of it for both of them, or how to ask S if they're alone, suddenly irrationally afraid it would sound like a threat. He's been doing better the last couple months, and it's overwhelming to find himself here again, anxious and unable to find his voice. He swallows hard, eyes squeezing tight shut, jaw clenching as he opens them again, looking wide-eyed to S. Please. "It's okay," he manages, "I'm —" He's not though. He stops himself, breathes deep, forces himself to answer more honestly. "I am upset." This is so much harder than it probably should be, but he can't help the difficulty of it when he feels ashamed for reacting this way at all. He didn't want to do this, didn't want to make it harder for S to play. "Not at you. Not with you. It's me. Just me."

This, too, seems wrong. J didn't do anything except stop by so they could walk home together, the gesture thoughtful in the way that S sometimes wonders if J even realizes he is. Instead they've wound up here, and whatever J says, S sees no way that isn't on him. Had he not chosen that precise fucking moment to get some piano-playing out of his system, they would be smiling and getting ready to head home. Even that doesn't matter half as much as the fact that just about anything would probably be better than this, with J suddenly seeming impossibly far away, though the distance between them is only that of a few feet. It would be funny if it weren't so deeply sad. Music was one of the things that first brought them together. Now it's one of the only things that comes between them, this distance one he doesn't know how to close, this problem one he doesn't know how to solve.

That helpless sensation isn't new, but he hates it as much as he ever did, shifting his weight for a moment, weighing his words. "But you didn't do anything," he finally murmurs, because it's the one thing that keeps running through his head. He almost goes a step further with it, even, pointing out that J was thinking of him, while he was only thinking of himself, but he reminds himself again that that can't be right. J gave him sheet music for Christmas. That one night in bed that they talked about it is mostly hazy from the sleep deprivation and all the crying that took place, but he remembers how distraught J sounded saying that he felt like he'd taken this from him. J clearly wouldn't have wanted him to give it up. Except now that they're here, with S having played in front of him for only a moment and entirely by accident, and something is already so off-kilter. He doesn't see how that could possibly be for any other reason but him.

"Can we —" He wants to talk this through, to figure out what's going on. He wants to be back at home, where they don't have to worry about anything or anyone else. Neither of those is something he can simply make happen, though, and he frowns again for a moment, apologetic. "I have a coworker in the back. Let me text her and tell her just to leave, alright? Then maybe we can... sit for a few minutes, or something?" He takes a step closer. This distance won't close itself, and he can't see J look like this and just stay away. "Please?"

There's so much he's done, J thinks, so much he got wrong. Most of it happened well before today, but even this, he's fucking up. He can't make S understand that without saying more, though, and if he says more, he really will start crying, something he refuses to do when someone else is here. It's already difficult not to, seeing the worry in S's expression, seeing him take that step nearer to J. All he wants is to close this distance and let S hold him, let him soothe this down to something bearable like only he can, but that, too, would first involve tears.

Instead he nods quickly, pushing through the sense of being frozen, making himself take a step closer, too. When he can't find the right words, when he's afraid to say them when someone else could hear, this is the only way he has to show S he means what he's saying. This isn't S's fault, not even close. And he's trying, he knows he's trying to do his best here, to communicate as much as he can make himself now that he sees his mistake, but that doesn't make J feel any less guilty for feeling like this at all. He takes a slow, shaky breath, steadying himself as best he can while S takes care of this.

"Will she come this way?" he asks after a moment. If so, he needs to duck behind a shelf or something, hide his face. He doesn't want to make S's job complicated, too, and lead S's coworker to ask questions or gossip.

It's such a small thing. It shouldn't even matter, really, J taking a step closer, and certainly not to the extent it does. Back when they'd first gotten here, those first few days during which they were still finding their footing with each other again, S would have understood it, the wave of relief in one simple movement, the way it nearly makes his composure give way. Now, though, there's not really any good reason for it. It happens anyway, his breath leaving him on a rush, his hand reaching out to squeeze J's for a moment before he lets go again. He doesn't really want to, but he does need to deal with the fact that they aren't the only people in the store. Once they are, it still won't be an ideal place to talk through whatever is going on, but at least they'll have privacy. It's the best he can do in this situation. At least it's something he can do at all.

"She might," he answers, pulling a face even as he takes his phone out of his pocket to start composing a text message. He tries to choose his words carefully, not wanting to let onto the fact that there's something wrong and risk her asking questions, but wanting to make sure she actually does leave. "But she'll probably just go out the back way. I'm telling her I'll take care of everything up here."

Glancing up from his phone as the message sends, he swallows hard, his expression worried but a touch hopeful. "Either way, she'll be gone soon. And we can talk."

It doesn't fix things, J knows that. Even so, the feel of S's hand wrapped briefly around his and the way his nose wrinkles as he starts to text are enough to make J feel a little better, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, fondness softening the jagged edges of his hurt. They figure things out, he tells himself. They get through things. He knows that there's not really anything they can do to change how things are now, and that that's going to hurt probably forever, but they can get through it. He just has to breathe.

That, at least, feels somewhat easier now. As daunting as the idea of talking is, it'll be better. J tells himself so again and again, reminds himself quietly of how many times talking has helped. It's not a cure and it doesn't undo the damage he's done, but it helps. Every time he does it, S knows him better still, and he's reminded all over again how loved and wanted he is. This won't be the time that breaks them. It's better, no matter how hard, than leaving S in the dark, letting this eat at them both all on their own.

It's just such a difficult topic. It's always going to be, and it feels like it shouldn't have to be, that J's being greedy or cruel having such strong feelings about another mess he made. Talking about it is unnerving even before S mentions that's what they'll do, and then all J can do is wait, gaze darting nervously behind S toward the back, waiting to see if someone will emerge and if he'll have to make himself move from this spot.

S feels for a few moments like he's holding his breath, watching as his sent message gets a little delivered label underneath it, followed by the ellipsis that means the other person is typing. A part of him feels guilty, too, for hoping she just leaves out the back. He very much wants to introduce J to the people he works with — ones he might not be close to, exactly, but who all seem like good people. He likes working here, and not just because it affords him time to play the piano on occasion, an opportunity he wouldn't get nearly anywhere else.

Of course, today, that's the whole root of the problem, or it feels like it is. He won't know for sure until he's certain that the two of them are alone here, and until then, he isn't sure what else to say or do. Fortunately, it doesn't take long until a response comes in — largely as expected, his coworker thanking him for closing up and saying that she'll see him tomorrow. There's no sound of anyone else approaching, so he waits another moment, then sighs as he lowers his arms. It's fine. They'll be fine. It just hurts, is all.

"She's leaving," he says, glancing behind him just to make sure she doesn't seem to be approaching. Still there's nothing, and it's both relieving and daunting. Better not to have to wait, or to lie, or pretend that everything is alright when something very much isn't, but he's not entirely sure how to talk about this. It's one subject that's stayed not entirely, but mostly untouched. "There aren't many places to sit, but..."

But he'd rather do that than just awkwardly stand here. It would be easier, he thinks, if they were at each other's side, not facing each other, only making him more aware of that distance.

J shakes his head at that, reaching for S's hand again now that it's free. He doesn't care if they sit or stand. Neither one is easy or comfortable right now, and the only place he sees is at the piano and he doesn't know if that would just make things worse. As it is, all he really wants is to be held and confess all the stupid things he's feeling, even though he knows it will hurt S, because S hates to see him in pain, hates not being able to put things right. There's a part of him that still, always, thinks it's stronger to keep it to himself and not put S through that. It's a part he's very much had to fight, pitting the instinct of it against the very real fact that S has told him otherwise. At the same time, part of him just wants to be comforted, even as he feels guilty for that. It's his own fault, all of it is, he knows that.

"I'm sorry," he says again, helpless, knowing it's not what S wants to hear. "I really... I didn't mean to get all... Do you want to sit? I don't know where. I — Sihyun-ah, really, I'm okay. It's okay. I'm just... sad. It's stupid." He doesn't know what to do with his free hand or, really, any part of himself, feeling aimless and at a loss, looking pleadingly to S for some kind of an answer or reassurance. "We can sit, we can stand, just — hold me for a minute, okay?"

Whether or not it makes sense for him to seek comfort, whether or not it's fair, he also knows that asking for it, warranted or not, is better than continuing to flail around about it. Sometimes being held helps to calm him down. It feels safer somehow, like S is protecting him, which, really, he is. Maybe if S does that for a bit, J will have a chance to have a coherent thought and the ability to express it.

That part, at least, is easy. Just having permission to get closer would have been enough for the relief to start to outweigh everything else, and being asked to do so makes it even more so. And while he does kind of want to sit, even if it's just on the floor for lack of anywhere else, he doesn't want to make J wait, not after a request like that. They can figure that out a little later. For now, he nods, then steps in toward J, free arm wrapping around him to hold him close, S's eyes falling shut for a moment. He's sad, too, and it probably is stupid, but at least there's this. Whatever else might be wrong right now, not everything is. It's not going to do any real damage. Having anything that pertains to this subject come up is never pleasant, but they'll be alright.

Ultimately, that's all that really matters. S would readily never touch a piano again if that were what it took to keep this. It would hurt, but it would be worth it. He half-wonders if that's where this is going, but he knows better than to ask about it outright, especially when J is, okay or not, already shaken. Reassurance is most important. Anything else can come after.

"You don't need to be sorry," he murmurs into J's shoulder, the words instinctive but true. Again, he thinks that J didn't even do anything but stop by so they could walk home together. Despite the probable contradiction in his own logic, S still hates that he likely ruined that sweet gesture by choosing exactly the wrong time to sit and play for a while.

He doesn't mean to say that. Standing there, idly smoothing his hand along J's back, he doesn't really mean to say anything else yet. The words that follow spill out before S even realizes it, some old insecurity bringing them forth, his voice even quieter now, unsure. "Does it... Does it really upset you that much? Hearing me play?"

Once S's arm is around him, J lets go of his hand, wrapping his arms around S's waist. It helps, being held, having that closeness. It leaves him feeling a little more raw, as if it's harder to hold the feelings back when he's being comforted, but even so, it feels better, safer, than the alternative. The slow movement of S's hand down his back steadies J's breathing, and though he could easily protest what S first says, he doesn't. He just needs a moment like this, quiet, aware of how loved he is.

It stings, though, when S speaks again, a sharp pang in J's chest as he starts to shake his head. He doesn't look up. He's not entirely sure how to make himself move the way he wants to, his body feeling not quite in his control sometimes when he gets like this. "No, no," he says quickly. Once he does, though, he's not sure if it's true or not. It did upset him to hear, after all, but it's more complicated than that. "I..."

He sucks in a sharp breath, trying to figure out how to say this, how to make himself say it. It feels so pointlessly selfish. Or it did. That feeling lingers, but it seems less important than making sure S knows this isn't like before. He's not angry, he's not jealous. He's just sad. "It's not the same," he says. "Fuck, I feel so stupid." There's no way he can say anything now without making both of them feel terrible. Just fumbling for the words leaves him feeling like his throat is growing too tight. "It's not the playing, it's the stopping. Which is fine, I understand, it's okay. It's — I get it, I do."

They can't ever have the past back. That's fine too, but this one part mattered so much for so long, it's hard to let it go, harder still because he's the one who ruined it. "I can handle it," he murmurs. "I will." There's no alternative to that, really. Still, that doesn't keep him from having to close his eyes tight, trying to keep himself from crying.

At first, before he's really taken anything in, S wants to apologize, to reassure, to tell J that it isn't stupid. Whatever music used to be for them, it's so fraught now in so many different ways. The way it came between them, the things it contributed to driving J to do — no matter how much better everything is here or how far behind them all of that is, none of that can ever just be forgotten. For J to be emotional now is reasonable, and about what S would have expected. He just hates being the cause of it, especially when it could have been so easily avoided. Talking about it, on the rare occasion the subject has come up, is one thing. Having J walk in not knowing he would be at the piano is another entirely.

The more J says, though, the less S can make sense of it. Without pulling away, both arms around J now, he frowns a little, brow furrowing in confusion. "You're upset because I stopped?" he asks, quiet but confused. "I... I stopped because I didn't want to upset you." Little as he can comprehend all of this, it still comes down to the fact that he misstepped, and that all of this could have been avoided if he hadn't played. No matter how much he misses it, it doesn't feel right for it just to be his, like he's just showing off the fact that he gets to do something that J doesn't allow himself anymore. He would rather encourage J to get back to it, if he ever feels like he can.

Despite the things that J has said when they've talked about this before, he just can't reconcile what it sounds like J is saying with what's been in his head. He'll have to wait for clarity, though it at least helps to have J close in the meantime, to feel him warm and solid and holding on in turn. If the past year has taught him anything — well, it's taught him a lot of things, really, but among them is the fact that, although it helped bring them together, their relationship doesn't need to be bound together by piano. Even if neither one of them ever plays a note again, S truly believes they'll be fine. After the way they fell apart before, that means a hell of a lot.

J nestles into S, face tucked against his shoulder, nodding a little. It's so utterly stupid, which only makes it all even worse. If he were upset for a reason that makes sense or that was somehow justified, at least there would be that bit of solace, but this is absurd and unfair. That makes it harder to pull himself together, though, hurt and guilt building on each other until it's difficult to speak.

"I know," he mumbles. That's the problem. S has every reason to worry that he'd react badly, every reason to think J might become mean or jealous or petty. J spent long enough afraid of the very possibility of playing again to understand why. As it is, he's still a bit nervous about it, even though he's let himself play a little bit a handful of times over the last several months. Playing in public for a few minutes here and there at least removes him from the habit of trying to do more than just play. He's not there to write music and there are people around, their quiet chatter helping to keep him present. Of course, when he has to work up his nerve to let himself play at all because of the terrible things he did in the past, of course S would worry he'd be upset. J has no right to want or expect anything else.

He still does, though. "Sorry," he murmurs again. "I know — I know it's not the same... I know it won't ever be." As hard as he tries to hold himself together, just saying that makes his chest ache, throat tight, tears welling up. He doesn't want to go back to the past. What they have now is what he wants. That doesn't mean there aren't parts he loves, parts that mattered, things he wishes he could have kept. "It hurts though. It was ours and I ruined it. I missed — fuck, I miss it, and just for a moment —" His voice is too shaky now, the way he shuts his eyes tight still not enough to keep him from crying. It's so stupid, so cruel, saying these things, pushing his guilt onto S. The last thing he wants is for S to stop playing again because of him. Not being able to keep that part of their past shouldn't have to mean it can't be part of S's future. It just hurts desperately to know that he is himself the reason he doesn't get to share in that.

There still must be, S thinks, something he isn't entirely grasping here. Something is obviously wrong, and there are certainly wires crossed, when the thing he was doing to stop J from getting upset has wound up having completely the opposite effect. He just can't grasp what the problem is, at least in that regard. Some of the rest, he's heard J say before. As much as it hurts, he's pretty sure that, no matter how many times he says otherwise, J will never stop believing that he ruined it. S is convinced instead that that's on him. If he'd just fucking stopped sooner — pursued something else, not persistently been right there for J to compare himself to, turning it into a competition despite wanting nothing of the sort — then maybe everything wouldn't have fallen apart so catastrophically. Maybe J could still let himself have this.

For a moment, S stays quiet, trying to take all of this in. At least he has J here and close, turning his head a little so he can brush a kiss against J's hair. "You didn't," he murmurs shakily. "You didn't ruin it." He can't negate the rest. It was theirs, and it's not anymore, and he misses it, too. Even when he plays, he misses it, a part of him hoping every single time he does that he'll get back a little of the passion he once felt for it. So far, it hasn't happened. There's no way that could possibly be J's fault when J hasn't done anything but encourage him to continue if he wants to. "I just... I know you don't play much anymore, and..."

This is all wrong. It makes his chest feel tight, frustration building in him, though he tries hard not to let it show, not wanting J to misconstrue it as being directed at him. It's entirely at himself, and his stupid, stupid habit of saying the wrong thing, words coming out all twisted and making his intention seem different than it is. He might not have fucked this up too badly yet, but there's still every chance he could do so. Sighing, he curls his fingers absently in J's shirt. "I didn't want to hurt you," he finishes, quieter still, aware that he's being redundant but not knowing what else to say. "But I guess I did anyway."

J wants to protest again, and he still thinks he's right, but debating the precise cause of his hurt might not actually be all that helpful. It was the fact that S stopped playing that set his thoughts in motion, so in that respect, maybe it's true. He just doesn't think it's the same thing, when he knows what hurts is what he's lost and his own role in that.

Besides, what S says first is too wrong for the rest to matter. "I did though," he says quietly. "It's... Sihyun-ah, it's okay that you stopped. I understand." He forces himself to take a slow, shuddering breath, drawing his head back enough to glance up at S. There's no use in pretend he's not teary, no use in hiding that, and he wants to see S, wants S to see him. Hiding doesn't make this all that much easier anyway. "That's what hurts. I understand. All the reasons why you — why you wouldn't want to play around me anymore. I can't be upset with you or mad at you for it. It makes sense. And that hurts. I did this. I made things like this." He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. "I can't undo it, I know that." If anything, that makes it hurt more, and makes that pain all the more pointless. He wants S to play, if that's what S wants. Voicing this isn't going to help with that.

But, he reminds himself, neither will silence. Keeping S out has never helped. It's part of what caused all this to begin with. No matter how hard it is to talk about this, how his jaw trembles and his voice shakes, he can't repeat those mistakes again. There's too much he can't fix, but he can at least do his best not to make things worse or let it get bad again.

None of this is right. It could just be how horrible it feels to think that at all about something that used to be incredibly right for them, but everything seems so terribly off-kilter, and S still doesn't know what to do about it. He can't fix this. No matter how hard he tries, he can't undo any of it either — can't go back and give himself something other than piano to focus on, can't prevent all that jealousy from taking root within J, can't take back the things that J did in service of the music. He can't bring back his own love of it, either. Although he's tried, he also isn't sure he would want to succeed. Over and over, he comes back to the thought that it would just feel wrong for it to be only his and not J's anymore, and that's the piece he struggles to put into words. With as different as things are now from the way they were back in Seoul as their relationship splintered apart, it isn't that he expects J to grow angry or resentful again. He just doesn't see how it wouldn't just come between them.

"Fuck," he mumbles, at a loss for a moment. Despite the fact that some of what they're saying is the same, it feels like they're talking about different things. He's not sure how to express it, though, or how to offer any kind of reassurance when it's at least true that the way J was about S's playing before changed things. S doesn't hold a grudge, but it would have been impossible not to have his perspective altered by that somewhat.

He takes another deep breath, letting it out heavily, trying to remain composed if only because they're still at his place of work, the front door unlocked, even if he doubts anyone will come in. The setting alone makes this inherently awkward, but he's not sure it would have come up any other way. He doesn't play anywhere else, and aside from when he's tried to gently encourage J to play, he doesn't really talk about it, either. "It's not — that I don't want to," he tries, frowning deeply, a crease in his brow, just the sight of J in tears making it that much harder for him to keep it together. "It just doesn't seem fair. You barely let yourself play, and... I want you to feel like you can again, if you want to. I don't want to get in the way of that. Or... show off that I'm playing while you're not." He looks at J, quietly pleading. "I'm not saying it right."

A faint edge of panic hums along J's skin, but he waits, he makes himself wait, quiet, watching, for S to say more than fuck. He wants to take it all back, afraid and aching and so painfully guilty, scared he's made S feel the same way. He doesn't. It's hard work. He wouldn't have called it that before, didn't understand how difficult it could be to wait and be patient and trust; he had his anxieties as an adolescent but it was never so bad. He rarely had to worry what S would think of him. Even when he clumsily, thoughtlessly came out, it was because of how easy things were between them and how safe he felt. He didn't get it then, that it required, on some level, that he trusted himself too. Knowing who he was, what he wanted, having that certainty of self made awkward pauses and concerns easier to bear. Though he's doing better here than he did for a long time before this, he still spends far too much time lost in doubt and self-recrimination.

So much that he doesn't expect what S says, his brow furrowing in turn, confused. "Maybe," he allows, because maybe it's true that S isn't putting it right. He doesn't quite understand what he's hearing, after all. "I... you're not in my way. Or showing off. I'm in your way." He's been vaguely aware, after all, that S plays at work sometimes, but it's just been an idea. S hardly ever mentions it. He keeps it to himself and stops when J catches him. If anyone's holding anybody back, it's J. Of course it's something S keeps private. How can J expect S to trust him in this setting when J's still struggling to trust himself? How can S play in front of him when, last time, J nearly killed him? How can it possibly be unfair of S to do so? "I — the reasons I — I'm slow, I'm careful — that's my fault too, not yours."

His pulse throbs in his throat, his gaze dropping again. It won't do much to hide the tears, but he's tired and sad and, even with his vision blurry, he can't quite look at S when the shame sits so heavy in his chest. He's barely able to trust himself on any but the best of days. That's no one's fault but his own.

S shakes his head again, though it's the only protest he can manage for a moment. Again, he's struck by the sense that they're having two slightly different conversations, not quite understanding each other, and if there's a blame to attribute to that, he's sure it lies with him. It wouldn't be the first time he'd attempted to help and screwed everything all up instead. At least with this, though, there's one very simple rebuttal he can make. He has no idea how J has wound up thinking these things — and wonders for a moment if that's his fault, too, if maybe J wouldn't feel this way if S had spoken about this part of his life some more — but it isn't true in the slightest, and if absolutely nothing else, he can make sure J knows it now. Maybe J won't agree, but he should at least know that that's not how S sees it at all.

"You're not in my way," he replies, slightly bewildered. One arm drops from its place around J, but only so he can bring his hand to J's cheek instead, palm resting gently there, thumb brushing a few errant tears away. "How could you be? I play when I'm here. If I wanted to play more, I would." That's another whole issue, really, but he's tried to explain it before. Given the struggle he's already having to articulate himself now, it doesn't seem worth getting into without prompting. Granted, at this rate, it's likely to come up anyway, but he won't be the one to get them there. "But you..."

J loved it so much. They both did, and S misses the part of him that loved it that much. Somehow, though, it's more difficult to fathom J staying away from the piano forever than it is to do the same for himself. What he has now — a steady job, a life with the man he loves, a chance to make a little music when he feels compelled to — is all he could ever ask for. "Even if you're slow," he continues, "even if you're careful, it should be there for you. You having to hear me play when you're not playing... I don't know. It feels cruel of me. Unfair."

J closes his eyes, leaning into S's hand. Shaky as he feels, it helps, the gentleness of his touch helping to steady him. Maybe this, like so much else, would be easier if they talked about it more, but there are so many reasons they don't. He thought it was better to leave that unchanged, at least for now, to give S room to do things the way he wants without J interfering. This is different, though, not at all what was in his own head. He assumed S stopped because he was worried he would act irrationally or become cruel. To be fair, J supposes, he probably is being irrational. He hadn't thought S stopped to keep him from feeling left out. That it only achieved the opposite is something he needs to explain, he knows that. It's just that none of this is simple or straightforward or comfortable.

"It's not," he whispers, his voice rough, his throat too tight. "I miss it. When you're there and I play — I feel it, too. How unfair it is that I do while you sit and listen." He knows S has this place. He does. But it's hard to remember when he's never seen it before now, when that's only been a passing idea. He knew he missed the fact of their sharing music, but he didn't understand how keenly until he could hear S play again, just for a few delicate moments. He swallows hard, taking a slow, deep breath. "Just because you play doesn't mean I can't. I'm just... nervous."

So far, it's been fine, but he's also been cautious, playing only in public places. He doesn't try to write. He doesn't seek inspiration. He plays what he knows. Until he feels steadier, more certain of himself, that's best, he feels. Maybe one day he'll try something new — improvise or get sheet music for a song he's never played. But it hasn't actually been all that long since he came here, since all the crimes he committed; it's been even less time since he found himself drifting back into alternating numbness and despair. When he can't be entirely or even mostly certain of his own mental state, it's better, he knows it is, if he's cautious, letting himself rediscover his abilities and his comfort bit by bit.

He loved music long before he knew S. He'll love S long after he plays his last note. They never had to be at odds. He chose that. It's a mistake he never wants to make again, and if that means S never plays for him, he has to accept it. But S has never stood in his way, not once, not with this. He never would. The same can't be said of J and he knows it. He sniffs, blinking hard, wanting to be able to see S. Unless he lets go and wipes his eyes, though, that isn't happening, and he doesn't want to let go.

It isn't, S thinks, as if only one of them can ever play again. He's never thought that. It just won't be theirs again, the way it used to be. Most days, it doesn't even feel like his anymore. Playing, when he does, is just habit, or like scratching an itch, getting something out of his system. He wasn't ambitious like J before, but he was passionate; that passion left him around the time that J did, fizzling out all but entirely when he lost J in a way that he thought would be far more permanent. There's love now, but no drive. It's a hobby at most, and something he's repeatedly toyed with the idea of giving up for good, simply because it seemed like it would make things easier.

With what J is saying now, he's not so sure that part is true anymore. To him, it feels like it, but just because it does doesn't mean it's true for both of them. At least they both seem to understand each other better now. He's not sure he's said anything the way he meant to, but however awkwardly, he's gotten the message across somehow. The response is just one he isn't prepared for. Somehow, he was sure that it would only hurt J to hear him play. Part of that is undoubtedly a holdover from the days when piano did nothing but breed resentment there, but not nearly all of it. S doesn't even know how he became convinced that it would just be salt in a wound, when J has never given any indication of preferring him to stop. He gifted S sheet music on Christmas, as clear a sign as any of wanting him to have this. That wouldn't make it right to flaunt it, though, and that's all S has felt like he would be doing.

"You can be nervous," he murmurs with the tiniest of smiles, an attempt at reassurance, though his composure feels increasingly tenuous with each passing moment. It's hard to see J in tears and not begin crying himself, not least when it seems like it's his fault. He fucked this up, clearly, read it all wrong. Of all the ways to have done so, though, at least this seems like something they'll be able to work their way through. Hopefully. "You don't have to rush. And it doesn't feel unfair to me, to sit and listen while you play. I like hearing you." Saying that, it almost seems for a moment like it should stand to reason that the same would be true in turn, but it's not the same, or he's convinced it isn't. J is the one who's felt like he has to hold back. S has been playing at least in some capacity all this time. "But when I've been playing and you haven't... I don't know. It seems different."

Everything around music hurts now. That fact alone stings. None of it should be like this. There was a time when it was all that kept him going, when he was small and very nearly alone, when the world knocked him around but he'd grown just big enough to be determined to keep that to himself. It was J's lifeline then, and it feels so fucking wrong that, for a long time, it was the opposite. It's not music's fault he became the way he was. It's not S's fault either. Something inside of J broke, jagged edges scarring everything he touched. And it's wrong that music was part of that, when it should have stayed solace and guide. It's wrong to hurt like this over something that gave him strength, that connected him first to his mother then to his love. Even trying hurts, the hesitant tendrils of wanting brushing up against those nerves, until he's all too aware of the very fact of it, of being afraid of something that used to feel like breathing.

And he knows, deep, deep down, because S has told him this, because he understands now, that this isn't entirely on him. What broke is inside of him, yes, but he was made vulnerable by it, prodded into place, manipulated. It still feels like his fault for not being stronger, for not trying harder, for not loving better. It won't ever be what it was. Even if they somehow got this back, even if he began to play again in earnest, it wouldn't be the same, and he has, again, the wisp of an idea that he's grieving himself. All he was, all he could have been, all they should have had. He lost a lot more than his life back there.

He's gained a lot, too. Bleary though his eyes are, he can see the motion, the shift in the line of S's mouth. His words sting, like everything else, but it's not bad, necessarily. It's just guilt, like everything else, his heart predisposed to it in this moment.

"It's not," he says, a little bit of a whine in his voice. He doesn't know if it's true, exactly. They process things differently, no matter how similar they are in so many ways. And it's true, after all, that S has only ever encouraged him and praised him, while J spent a long time criticizing and going cold. He doesn't think that's what S means; as ever, S seems to be thinking more of how J might feel than of his own pain. Even so, maybe that's the difference deep down. Or maybe it's just J getting mixed up again, confusing his distrust of himself with the idea that S might not trust him either, at least not in this way.

"I don't think it is," he clarifies, sniffling. "I wanted to hear it again." He means it to be a simple statement, but it nearly breaks him, saying it out loud, head bowing as he tries to hold back tears, or at least not start sobbing. "I didn't think I would." It's not so simple, he knows that. Hearing S play won't restore the innocence of their passion or bring back the old ease. But they were so happy once, and he feels awful for missing that when they're happy now, too. It's not like S is hiding something from him. It just feels, even so, like something that once was his is gone, something he foolishly gave away. He hasn't said any of this because it seemed so pointlessly cruel. He has no right to ask S to play for him anymore, and he doesn't want S to feel as if he needs to do so. S can play if and how and when he likes, and J doesn't want his sorrow to get in the way of that, but he knows S. Now he's said this, it'll probably only make things worse.

These past few minutes, S has done a pretty good job of maintaining his composure, at least to some extent. Seeing J cry is never easy and always hurts, and he's felt a little shaky in turn, but he hasn't fallen into tears himself, if only because he's been too distracted. His focus has been on his words, trying to get them right, knowing he hasn't managed to do so. They understand each other now, and that goes a long way towards easing his mind a little, but he's still not sure he's actually managed to say what he means, what's in his head. He's gotten closer, but it's a difficult feeling to articulate, how he's had the sense that playing in front of J, or even talking about it all that much, would only hurt him. It didn't exactly do any good for them before — not in the end, anyway, and it's not as if that's all that matters, but of course the way it broke them apart would override the way it brought them together. That was just the progression of things. It started fine, and then it wasn't anymore. What they have now, S doesn't want to risk, not for anything, not even music.

Hearing what J says, though, that desperately clung to composure of S's shatters. It feels like a punch in the stomach, like a knife in the chest, sharp and searing, and he doesn't know how he gets from one state to the other, only that he's suddenly crying too, his hand dropping from J's cheek so he can wrap that arm around himself instead as tears begin to fall. He didn't expect it, is the thing. Even when J gifted him sheet music for Christmas, even when he cried about feeling like he took this away from S, S never actually thought that J would want to hear him play again. That last day back in Seoul, J asked him to play for him one last time, but it isn't as if that ended particularly well. Before that, through that whole last year they were together, it increasingly seemed like he hurt J — well, just by existing, but specifically by playing or writing music. S never wanted it to be a competition, and he never knew how it became one, but it was painfully clear that it was.

Maybe he's the one who's been looking at this all wrong, convinced that, no matter how much better things are now, it would come between them still in one way or another. He hasn't wanted to take that chance. He never considered for a second that he might actually make things worse that way.

"I didn't think you would, either," he says, the only thing he can say, his eyes shut tight for a moment as if that might prevent any more tears from coming. It doesn't, of course, and he doesn't want to do this here, feels fucking stupid for it, but he's not sure it would have happened anywhere else. He simply wouldn't have played in front of J on purpose. For more than a year, they've avoided this subject almost entirely, and S has had no intention of changing that. It's not like they have a piano at home anymore anyway. It could only ever have been here. He supposes they're just lucky that J came in at the very end of the day and not sometime in the middle of it, with other employees and customers around. "I thought —"

He doesn't know what he thought, and even if he did, he doubts he could get it out now anyway. Something feels changed, though, even without words put to it. For over a year, he hasn't let himself consider playing more than he does now, told himself that he'd be happy to give it up when he gets so much in return, that he should have done so sooner. Maybe none of that was right at all.

J can barely see, but he can hear. He knows the sound of S crying, even before the tears really fall. He knows the way S moves. For a moment or two, eyes shut tight, J feels frozen, wanting to pull S closer, afraid it's not what S wants. Sometimes when J's upset, he needs more space, not less. He doesn't know, right now, what S needs.

It's hard to think clearly. He can't figure out what to say or do, can't figure out how to regain any sense of clarity or calm. S tried to keep it the way it was, and J can't fault him for it; he knows that, whatever S did, he did because he thought it was best. And that has infuriated J at times, S making these decisions all on his own, but when it comes to music, when it comes to J and all the horrible things he's done, the way he behaved for so long, he can't hold it against S if he thought they were better off keeping this part of their lives separate. J has so many options in his own head as to why S might believe that, but he's not even sure now which one was real, only that S, as always, wanted to keep from hurting him. It makes sense, J knows that. It's all so complicated. He never wanted it to be. It never should have been.

"That it would upset me," he says, voice small, and it takes effort to get out that much. S isn't wrong, after all. He heard S play again for the first time in over a year, and here he is, shaking, trying not to sob, caving to instinct and tugging at S's shirt, trying desperately to get him closer. He is upset. He's upset for so many reasons, and he doesn't understand all of them, and he knows that, no matter when this happened, he probably would have gotten emotional. There was no way for this not to mean so many things to him. But he doesn't know if he would have been this kind of upset, this struck and hurt and stunned, if it hadn't been so fucking long that he's had to push himself to accept that it would never happen again. He's never managed it. He's known it to be true, but he never accepted it.

He should have been more careful. He knows that now. If he'd warned S, he wouldn't have caught him unawares, invaded his space like this. But that hurts, too. He knows it's on him no matter what S's reason is, but he also doesn't like the idea of having to warn S he's on his way. It feels wrong. They had so many secrets for so long — he had secrets. He doesn't want it to feel like that again.

Even if he wanted to, S wouldn't have it in him to pull away right now. His instinct, when he's upset like this, is usually to curl in on himself, though he doesn't know if that was the case before he lost J or if it only became the case after he was left to deal with everything on his own. He's reeling, though, having been struck much harder by this than he expected, struggling to find some equilibrium after so abruptly bursting into tears. J tugs him closer, and he goes easily, leaning into him again, other arm still wrapped around him. As has so often been the case, he meant to be comforting J. Instead, he cries into his boyfriend's shoulder, trying to comprehend what it is he's feeling at all. Really, this should be a good thing. Nothing has been lost — nothing new, anyway. There's the barest hint of promise in what's just come to light. For months, though, for longer, he's missed so much and tried to bury it. When music was theirs, something shared, when he loved it that much at all — it's weighed on him even when he's tried to tell himself that it hasn't. It's been worth the loss, but it's still been painful.

He doesn't know what happens now, or what J thinks he means. Upset is a pretty vague term, after all, and somewhere in the back of his head, S wants to clarify that he never thought J would be mad or resentful like he was before. They've come such a long way from that, and things are so different now. It just hasn't been worth the risk that it might still come between them somehow, or make J more aware of his distance from what used to be so prominent in his life.

"I thought it would make things worse," he mumbles, voice muffled through his tears and against J's shirt. He isn't sure if he said that before, but it still seems more accurate than just upset, so he'll take it for now. "That it would be harder for you. To play. To not play. Either way." Hearing him could have made it a competition again, or it could just have reminded J of what he hasn't been letting himself have. When S had all but stopped before he got here anyway, it was a cleaner break for him. He really thought he was doing the right thing, leaving it for J, as it should have been anyway. Now, he's not sure that he was. He's not sure of anything, really, except that the weight of how much he misses it is impossible to ignore or shake off. "I'm sorry."