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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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."

He's awful, J thinks. He assumed worse, that S was worried about how he'd react because of how horrible he was in the past, and he didn't question that because he felt it was fair. But S has never seen him in the same awful light in which J sees himself, even when they've argued and been angry with each other. He wasn't scared of J; he wanted to protect J, the way he always has, and J wrung his hands and assumed S was, quite reasonably, afraid.

"Stop that," he murmurs, fussing with S's shirt, tugging at the fabric. He doesn't want to pull back even a little, which makes the process of moving one hand to S's back unnecessarily difficult, but he does so, palm resting against the small of S's back. "Don't apologize for taking care of me." It is, admittedly, something they should probably talk about. J shouldn't make these assumptions, he knows, though that never seems to stop him from doing so, but S shouldn't make these decisions either, not on his own. He sniffs, ducking his head so he can rub his face against S's shoulder. It's a vain attempt to clear his vision, but it also feels good, soothing.

"I'm sorry." Though he's trying to calm himself enough to take coherently, his voice still wobbles. Over the last year, he's let S make a lot of decisions for them — has, at least, encouraged him to do so, has left choices in S's hands because he knew he couldn't handle them himself. Sometimes even the smallest choices leave him nervous and frozen, and it's seemed better, at those times, to let S lead the way. He doesn't want S to doubt that he means it in those times. But he should have been doing better, saying important things when he could. Maybe then they would have cleared the air sooner. But then, maybe not. This is such a hard thing to talk about, he's not sure how he would ever have approached it otherwise. "I... I should have — I was scared, so I thought you were scared. So I didn't say anything, and I should have. We both should have."

Maybe they should have. For the most part, they've done so much better on that front during this last year than they were managing back in Seoul at the end. This one particular subject, though, has remained almost completely off-limits, coming up only rarely and briefly. S thought that was better, too, that it would be easier not to dwell on what they'd both lost in different ways. Even now, it just makes sense when he thinks about it. J wasn't playing at all for more than half a year, and for a while, on the rare occasion he mentioned it at all, it sounded like he might never do so again. S can't see how it would have been anything less than horrible of him to play in front of J, undeterred.

This is horrible, though, too. J was scared and so thought he was, whereas S wasn't scared, and because he wasn't, it never occurred to him that J might interpret it that way. To him, it just seemed so simple, so self-explanatory. Now it's all a mess, and while there's relief in having been wrong, there's guilt, too, enough to make him want to apologize again, only J's having just told him not to preventing him from doing so. "Don't you be sorry, either," he mumbles instead. "I wasn't scared. I just didn't want to hurt you."

He did that anyway. Although it's not outright stated, his words still carry an apology for it. They know each other so well, have known each other so long, and yet they read this all wrong. He still isn't entirely sure what to make of it or what to do next. For all these months, he's had himself thoroughly convinced not only that he couldn't have any more than this, but also that he didn't want it, either. He can't tell now if that was true or if he just wanted it to be. There's no way he'll figure it out in the moment, though, shaken and crying on his boyfriend's shoulder. "I never realized you thought that."

"And I thought it was obvious," J says, self-deprecatingly exasperated. "I'm so stupid." It's not like there's ever been a point where absolutely everything was just understood. Even at the best points of their relationship, they come at things from such different directions sometimes. It's ridiculous of him to have thought something this important was clear and understood. But all of it hurts so very much, and he didn't want to touch that, to put them in a place to have to feel that pain so intensely by discussing it. "That's what I meant. What I always meant. That I — I understood. Why you wouldn't want to play for me anymore."

Because last time S did, J tried to kill him. Because, before that, it infuriated him, the sound of S playing leaving him on edge, and he didn't hesitate to make that clear — because, even then, he had the sense that something precious and vital had slipped from his grasp and that it was his own fault, that two of the things he loved best in the world would never be the same. He didn't know how to handle that at the time, let his fear turn to fury because it was easier to bear. And now, thinking he was doing better, he made the same mistake, turning away from the fear because he didn't know what to do with it. It's a mess, but he really did think S understood. It was fair, it would have been entirely reasonable, if that had been the case. He wouldn't have wanted to play for himself, had their places been reversed. Even putting aside the concern that J might somehow be moved to murder again, he knew he'd changed how it felt, how their connection to the piano was colored. He couldn't ask to share it with him when he'd taken away what there was to share.

Hand slipping higher up S's back, he presses him close, turning his head to try and kiss S's cheek, catching his hair instead. It wasn't fair of him, he thinks. Though he still believes it would be completely rational for S to feel that way, he was wrong to assume it. S has always been kinder to him than he has to himself. "I thought it would be... uncomfortable," he murmurs into S's hair, "at best." He couldn't have handled it. He can't, which is precisely why he started crying to begin with. To see the ease they shared so utterly evaporated hurts. He doesn't even know what exactly is happening now, what they're figuring out, only that they are, and his heart is still aching, afraid. He doesn't want to push S into making some kind of a choice, thinking this means he has to play for him now or that he has to stop. He doesn't want to ask for either, not ever.

It's so predictable that it's almost funny, or it would be if he weren't so fucking sad. S tries to apologize, only for J to tell him that he's the one who's sorry instead; J says that he's so stupid, but S is sure that must be true of him, not of J. All things considered, it would probably make more sense if J's reasoning was also his. Instead, S isn't sure what it says about him that he never really thought about it that way. The first time J played again, months ago at Kagura, S was reminded of that last evening, but he was never scared or uncomfortable. He was just sad, remembering how, for a moment, things almost felt alright, then came crashing to a halt when J slammed his hands on the keyboard. The rest of it — what he thinks J means, anyway, the thing they talk about even less than anything else — has never entered the equation.

It was one moment, after all, a few awful, fleeting seconds. They've been back together for over a year now, and S has never once felt unsafe. All those years they were friends and then boyfriends, they spent countless hours playing together and for each other. Here, something has felt irrevocably different, but to him, only as it pertains to their respective relationships with the instrument that once helped bring them together and ultimately helped drive them apart. If he was afraid of anything, it was only the damage that it might do again.

"I never thought about it like that," he promises, tipping his head back just enough to try to catch J's gaze, if only for a moment. He needs to be clear about how utterly he means this, guilty and heartbroken at the thought of J spending all this time thinking that the distance between them on this subject was because of fear and that last night. Leaning back in again, he sniffles against J's shoulder, feeling small and pathetic and overwhelmed, but somewhere under that, the tiniest bit hopeful. Or maybe not hopeful, exactly, but with the sense that something maybe is healing, put out into the open when he hadn't even known it needed to be. "And I meant what I said before," he continues. "I don't love it the way I used to. But I think... maybe I wasn't letting myself?"

His voice wavers at that, the prospect a terrible one. If putting his thoughts into words was difficult a few minutes ago, it's infinitely more so now, when he's emotional and struggling to process everything that's happening, but he has to try, and that much, he can't hold back. "I got so convinced," he adds, pausing to take as deep a breath as he can, "that it would be better just to let it be yours, that it always should have been, and... of course I couldn't feel it anymore."

It's just a moment that S looks at him, but J is close enough that he can see. It's what S says, though, that wrecks the small bit of calm J managed to pull together, his eyes closing against a fresh wave of tears. Of course S never did. J's not sure he'll ever be able to let it go, to forgive himself to the degree that S has; he's not sure he'd feel right if he did. He was a fool to think, though, that S would feel that way now. It just seemed so obvious to him that this would be the case, that S would connect it to that night and to the past, even subconsciously, would assume that J would react poorly. Which, he has to acknowledge, he did, but only because it felt like getting a glimpse of something he couldn't have.

He's not yet sure if that's true. Getting this out in the open doesn't necessarily mean those walls come down. It's something, though. As awful as it is, at least now he knows that, like so much else, the worst was always just in his own mind.

Lips pressed into a line, he tries to gather his thoughts and his breath. If S believed it was only meant for one of them, J can guess where that line of thought came from. "Even when I haven't been playing?" he says, his throat painfully tight. He won't let that stop him. S feels so small in his arms, shaky — though maybe that's J himself — but so precious, and J has to talk, has to try and fix this. "Darling..." He sighs, muffled against S's hair. It's like this because of him, he knows, because of how he behaved. And he thought he was doing better — no, he knows he is, he knows he's been much better since he came here, even if there are still times when it's a struggle, but that doesn't erase all that came before. "It's... I didn't want it to just be mine. I don't want that. If you don't want to play, that's one thing, but if you do... that's not what holds me back, Hyunie. You know it's not."

At least in part, S does know that. He knows that it isn't why J hasn't been playing much here, and he knows there was a long stretch of time back in Seoul when his playing didn't seem to hold J back at all. If anything, for a long while there, he believed that they motivated each other. It wasn't a competition yet because there was room for them both to succeed; there was only encouragement between them instead. One thing that did strike him about that last awful night was the decade-old story that J told, a resentment that S never knew existed, one of so many little things that made him reconfigure his view of their entire past relationship. So he did know, but he's not sure he still does, not entirely. It didn't seem worth the risk of being wrong, not least when there are other things that J has to contend with that have been holding him back.

And he feels so ridiculous, crying for reasons he can't even entirely pinpoint, that feeling only making him cry more. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, because he doesn't completely trust himself to, needs to try to regain at least a little of the composure he so abruptly lost. "Even then," he confirms when he does, nodding against J's shoulder, achingly guilty even just in saying so, though he still thinks it just makes sense. "I figured it would be there for you, if you ever got back to it. And I didn't want to. Not for a long time. Not really."

It's one thing he still hasn't talked about, not where it concerns that particular detail. For weeks after he got out of the hospital and returned to the apartment that had once been theirs, he couldn't so much as touch their piano. Just looking at it was painful. When he did play again at last, it was for J's sake — the sonata that had been stolen from him, a promise to keep going for both of them. It still wasn't what it used to be. "But I miss it," he admits, voice tiny, almost a whisper. "I miss how it used to feel."

That, at least, J understands. "I know," he murmurs, hand rubbing gently against S's back. "Me too." He misses how it felt when they played together, and how it felt when he was a kid, when he played because he loved it, because he was good at it and it made him happy. Made him satisfied, even if he was unhappy, as he so often was. There was comfort in music, and he misses that, too, those days when it brought him peace instead of anxiety.

He misses being able to talk freely about it, too. He hasn't felt like he could for a long while, because he knows S doesn't, and it feels wrong. When it comes up, he's usually already upset, which makes it difficult to get everything he means across, especially when he's in the process of figuring it out for himself. "I didn't," he says abruptly. Sometimes stumbling through it and blurting it out is the only way for him to make any sense of his own feelings. "I didn't want to either. For a long time. It... it was all wrong. Not wanting it felt wrong. Wanting it felt wrong. There was... it was too complicated. It still is, and it hurts, and it's confusing, and — and I was relieved. For months, not feeling the urge to play, I — I thought it would be okay. And that was horrible."

He's not sure that makes any sense either. It's hard to explain when it seems to him like all his feelings contradict themselves. "I wish I hadn't made it so complicated. It used to just... be right."

Although a part of S immediately wants to protest the way J has phrased it, he's held back by the rest of what J says and how true it feels. For such a long time, it did just feel right. There's no other way to describe it. As with so many things, they may have taken somewhat different routes to the same place, but for S, while he may not have had the same early focus and dedication, something about it just always made sense to him — the notes and how they built upon each other, the movement of fingers over keys. He worked at it, but it also just clicked. The same could be said for when he decided as a teenager to try to pursue it seriously, and to write as well as play. He loved it already in his own right, but he doesn't know that he ever would have reached the same place if it weren't for J, if it hadn't already been theirs.

And then it wasn't anymore, and J was gone, and it hasn't been right in the same way since. That last night, he thought for a moment that it might be, only to be suddenly and painfully proved wrong. He doesn't know if it will ever be like that again. Certainly it won't be what it was for the pair of them, though that may not in itself be a bad thing, given how that all wound up. It would be nice, though, to get a little bit of that rightness back, to let himself have any real relationship again with the instrument he once used to be so passionate about.

"It did," he agrees, soft and sad, his fingers curling in J's shirt again. He still feels horribly foolish, but not enough to straighten up or pull away, too comforted by J's warm solidity for that. "I... I was relieved, too. That I didn't want it the way I did. That I could step away. I've had this, and that's enough, but it hurts that it is, too."

J nods a little, understanding what S means. He thinks he does, at least, how it's been enough just to have each other. It still is and will be, he believes that. But that doesn't mean he doesn't ache thinking of what was, or that he isn't still baffled by everything, trying to figure out his place in the world and who he is if he isn't a musician. Photography has helped ease the part of him that desperately wants to make something, to capture some piece of the world, and part of that is the very fact that it's new. But that's why it's not quite enough to quiet those voices, because it doesn't and simply can't fill that history. It's the history that haunts him. He grew up on music. He sat on his mother's lap and tried to play with clumsy toddler hands before he can even really remember. Through desperation and insecurity, he warped the beauty of that, but it's still something woven through his very being. How can he step away from it entirely? How can he return to it? How can he trust himself to do so ever again in any serious way?

Aside from the acknowledgment that nod gives, he's quiet a few moments, stroking S's back, trying to push all these feelings around until they make words. "I thought," he murmurs at last, "that we'd be safer if I didn't play. And all those horrible things I did and said... I thought, ah, I wouldn't want to play in front of me either. I wouldn't be comfortable. But, darling, I... if you want to step away or only play a very little bit, that's okay." He shifts carefully, nudging at S's hair with his nose before he draws back a touch, trying to look at S even if S isn't ready yet to look at him. "But please don't make yourself. I don't want that from you, please. Don't stop for me. It doesn't help me any for you not to play, not if it's what you want, it really doesn't."

In a way, it makes it worse, though that's not true all the time and he doesn't want to give S the wrong impression. It just upset him before to think S had given up just to appease him or had stopped out of some kind of fear. It's a choice S can make for himself, but that's what J wants it to be — something he decides for himself, not something he does for J.

Stupid as he feels for crying over this, S blinks through his tears as he looks up at J. There's no sense in trying to hide it, after all, and it's not like J isn't a mess, too. Still, it's easier to find it understandable in someone else than in himself, easier even now to tell himself that he doesn't need to play more than he already has been. Like he said a moment ago, or at least what he meant to say, though he's not sure this came out right, either, he has this job that gives him a chance to spend some time playing the piano, and that's all he really needs. He was never as ambitious as J was, anyway. Even when he wanted to be great, it was because he wanted them to have that together. Now, it isn't as if he's shut himself off from it entirely. He's just not sure how much he's been getting in his own way, how much his not wanting more is because he hasn't let himself, thinking it would be easier for both of them that way, as if anything involving music would have been easy after all they had to go through.

"I don't know what I want," he admits, turning his head for a moment to try to dry one cheek against his shoulder. "Other than you. As long as I have you... I could never touch a piano again and I'd be alright with that." It shouldn't have to be a choice for either of them, he thinks — it never should have been in the first place — but it's simply no contest for him. He would take J before music always, no matter what. "But I really thought that... it would help if I walked away from it. If you didn't have to deal with hearing me play when you weren't." He huffs out a breath, ducks his head again, cheeks a bit flushed. "If I'd never gotten serious about it in the first place."

Apologetic, he shrugs, giving J's shirt a little tug. His head is still a mess, full of too many things he could say but doesn't quite know how to. What he has said, though, he means. There's been an empty space for him that piano once filled, and he hasn't known how else to fill it, what other calling he might possibly have, but it's an emptiness he can bear. The space that was left behind in J's absence, he couldn't. "I wouldn't know how to let myself want it again. Or how to figure out if I did."