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 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."

He should be patient and listen, J knows, and he's really tried to get better at that — has, he thinks, actually done really well over the last year — but now he can't help shaking his head, emphatically disagreeing, before S is done talking. "No, no," he says. One hand still steady at S's waist, he brings the other up, lifts it to S's cheek, though they're all tangled up already. "That's not true. It wouldn't have helped, I don't think it would have. And we were happy when we played together. I..." Try as he might, he can't quite keep his voice from shaking, thinking about this. He ruined it. They can't go back. "I don't regret that."

He would have loved S just the same, he knows, even if S had never done more than sit beside him when he played and turned his own interests elsewhere. They would have been happy and in love even so. But they made so many memories, playing together, talking about music, dreaming about their future, conjuring up new melodies. He doesn't want to let that go or let what came after darken it. He's not sure, anymore, if he gets a say in that.

"Darling," he says softly, thumb stroking along S's cheek. "Please." He shakes his head, at a loss for words until they tumble out. "As long as I have you, I could walk away too." He lowers his gaze, shame coloring his cheeks. "I got that wrong before. But I know I was wrong. I made a mistake. It cost us so much. I thought it cost that, too, that — it didn't help, not hearing you. I only missed it and thought about how I fucked that up. I would have said so if I knew that was why." He shouldn't have made stupid assumptions; he should have asked, should have known better than to believe he understood why S made the decisions he did, when J knows full fucking well that his mind jumps to broken conclusions. "I should have anyway. It's just... so hard to talk about."

And he thought, too, that S didn't want to talk about it. He was lovely all this time, gently encouraging, understanding, but actually discussing music in any real way felt so utterly off-limits. It was a boundary J was content to live within, because the topic itself still unnerves him. It's too complicated and painful now.

This, too, is difficult for S to articulate, all the more so because he's still so emotional. He doesn't regret it either, he wants to say, at least not when he thinks about the time they spent so happy together, the piano a part of their falling in love. He's just pretty sure he fucked up, latching onto the same thing that J was already so dedicated to, J's first composition inspiring him to try to write his own. Maybe everything wouldn't have fallen apart so disastrously otherwise. There would have been no stupid sense of competition between them, no pieces for the professor to blackmail him for. As much as he knows, like they've said before, that there's no real way to predict what else might have changed and how, if at all, it could have been different, he's not sure he'll ever fully shake off that sense of self-blame for the damage his playing and composing did. J wasn't fair to him, lashing out the way he so often did back then; S can admit that, and he knows J wouldn't want him to pretend otherwise. But he was there too, and he could have done things differently, realized the harm he was doing instead of stubbornly pushing forward the way he so often does.

"It is," he agrees, and at that, he cracks the tiniest of smiles, wrinkling his nose as he does. "I'm still not sure I'm managing it very well." At least they seem to be understanding each other now, though. Despite the state they're both in, this still seems vastly better than those first few minutes after J walked in and he stopped playing, both just slightly misunderstanding each other. It stings a little, actually, to consider what J thought he felt, but S knows better than to take it personally. It's not like he can't understand why J might make an assumption like that, even if S thinks he's been as clear as he can about not holding that last, worst night against him. He's too focused on trying to work through the rest of this to get hung up on that now, anyway.

Gentle and instinctive, he leans into J's hand at his cheek. No matter how ridiculous he feels, it still helps, having J close and comforting like this, in no small part because this subject has done so much damage before. They may not be getting it all right this time, but they're working through it far better than they used to, and that has to count for something. "Even when you gave me that music on Christmas, I... I didn't really think you would want to hear me play. Or that you would have missed it."

Slowly, gently, J strokes S's cheek, ducking his head forward to kiss S's temple. "Of course I do," he says softly. It's not that simple, he knows. S had every reason to think that of him, no matter how J tried to encourage him this last year, too anxious to do more than make small comments and give him the sheet music. He would have assumed the same, probably, were their roles reversed. It's not like he was at all supportive before he left their studio. That was a different time, and he was different then, but he knows how thoroughly it still haunts him. He can't expect S not to feel the same in some ways.

But as awful as he was then, it doesn't erase how he felt before and how he feels now. In a way, it was never any different; he just showed it in different ways. Some of the anger and resentment he felt came from feeling as if important things were slipping away from him. This was part of that, pushing away the things that mattered and watching helplessly as he lost them, as if he couldn't stop himself.

It's hard to explain that. He's tried on multiple occasions and he thinks, to some extent, S understands. Right now, he just doesn't have the energy to try again, drained from being so upset, more focused now on taking care of S. He tries a different tactic. "You remember how happy we were then," he murmurs, "and how right it was. Why wouldn't I miss that? Even if we're happy now, that was important to me. Sihyun-ah... all those days we came home and I was tired and angry... you played for me and made me forget for a while." His school days were difficult, but no matter how rough it was at times, music was the cure. Whether he played for them or they played together, it felt good to lose himself in that. And when he was too frustrated or tired to play, there was S, soothing and coaxing. "You were so beautiful at the piano. The music, your hands, your profile... I always felt better — lucky, just to get to listen and to watch you. It's... it's been hard, knowing I wouldn't get to again."

He never dared to say so, though. Even now, saying this, he can feel his eyes filling with tears again, and he has to look away for a moment, blinking them back. It's his fault, after all, that things are like this, or so he thought, and he didn't want to say anything and put S in an awkward position or make him feel he had to play for J.

Although he knows it's not J's intention, S can't help how horribly guilty he feels hearing that. He never had any idea that J felt that way, and he knows, on some level, that he had a very good reason to assume the opposite was true, that J wouldn't want to hear him at all. Still, it's hard to think about J carrying that for all these months, both of them not wanting to broach the subject, worried about how the other might feel. Had they discussed it — actually talked it through — they could have realized all of this so much sooner, but it's an understatement to say that it's difficult to talk about. Even now, they're clearly both a mess for trying to do so, and that's with this actually seeming to be a positive development. S doesn't know what it means yet or where they go from here, but it does feel like something isn't quite as broken as he believed it to be. Maybe it will never be what it was for them, and maybe that's actually a good thing, but that doesn't mean they can't get back a little of what they lost.

He does, after all, remember how happy they were, and for such a long time. He just remembers what came after, too, all the bitterness and resentment, all the arguments. It felt like any time he simply played the piano, it was somehow a direct threat to J, or something for J to compare himself unfavorably to, although S never wanted them to be pitted against each other like that. Even compliments felt sharp-edged, intended to wound. The end of that night is a blur, but he remembers J calling him genius with his hands around his throat. And S would be the first one to say that he doesn't want that night to define their relationship now. It was only one night, after all, and they had so many more good times than bad. The bad times were still there, though, and when S still doesn't fully understand what changed or why, he hasn't wanted to risk his playing doing any damage again. If it could only be one of theirs, it should be J's.

The alternative — that it could be both of theirs again, if not in the way it once was — just never seemed possible. Hearing what J says now, though, and the part that he remembers most, brings on a fresh burst of tears, his jaw trembling in a failed attempt to stave them off. "I had no idea," he says, an apology and an explanation both. "I really didn't. I thought it would be help, for you not to have to see or hear me play."

J sniffles, shaking his head, gaze still lowered. He can hear the change in S's voice, the shift in his face where it presses against J's palm, and he can't bear to see it quite yet. "I should have told you sooner," he whispers, his own voice thick and rough. He lets out a small, trembling laugh. "I thought it would help not to. I didn't want you to... to feel pressured, like you have to play in front of me. Even if I didn't say a word, I thought — I thought you'd have to sit and play expecting me to yell at you or start a fight. So it was better not to say it."

He groans quietly, leaning forward to rest his head against S's shoulder for just a moment. "We don't learn," he says, quietly wry. It's funny and horrible all at once. He's not sure how to fix that, though. After all, S did what he did to try and spare J pain, and he did so at a time when J was very often not capable of making reasonable decisions for himself or anyone else. Coming to Darrow and finding S again was what he needed to start healing, but it was and is a process. He's still working on regaining his confidence and the mental wherewithal to make bigger decisions. It's been best to leave a lot in S's hands, even if he's always had to be pretty explicit about that being what he was doing — also understandable, for the same reasons that J didn't want S to feel obligated to play for him. He doesn't know how they're supposed to determine when it's right to do these things for each other and when they should ask; there's too much room for error, but it wouldn't have helped either of them if J had been right all this time and he'd still pushed S about it. If the sound of S playing truly hurt him and S had asked, he very well might have denied it, not wanting to get in S's way. He can't ask S to stop trying to protect him when sometimes he needs protecting; they both do.

S doesn't say what first comes into his mind then — that he wouldn't have felt pressured, he would have felt permitted. It isn't as if he believes he needs J's approval to play at all, or anything like that. Even had J not encouraged him to do so, S still would have taken some time with the pianos here as he's been doing, even just for a few minutes at a time. He just would never have done so in front of J without knowing that J would be alright with it, and he couldn't have assumed that J would be. Still, at least he knows now. He may not be able to determine what this means or even how he feels about music, but it feels like something has shifted even so, and very, very tentatively like it might be a good thing. If they've both been holding back at least in part for the other's sake, then perhaps having it out in the open now will leave them both a little freer to try it if they want to and not have to leave it this huge, unspoken thing between them.

"That's not true," he murmurs, one hand coming up to J's hair when J tips his head forward. Again, he nearly smiles, wry this time, self-deprecating. "We're very stupid, but we do learn." At least they've said all of this now instead of bottling it up even longer and misunderstanding each other even more. "We've come a long way from how things were before, haven't we?" He lets go of J for only a moment so he can attempt to dry his cheeks, still more than a little self-conscious, though it helps to be doing the reassuring again. "You were worried about me and I was worried about you, but... you wouldn't have started a fight, and I didn't think you would, and I wasn't just plowing ahead, waiting for things to go back to normal."

It's a lot to say, especially when his voice is a little wobbly with tears, and he shrugs. It might not even make sense. He really does think, though, that they have learned, even if they haven't always taken away exactly the right lessons. "And now we know."

J makes a soft sound into S's shoulder, tipping his head slightly to the side so he can press up against S's hand without pulling away. It feels good to have S comforting him, to be reminded of these things. They should have talked about this, he knows it, much, much sooner, but S is right. They're absolutely idiots, but they have learned.

It's soothing, too, to hear S say with such certainty that J wouldn't have started a fight. He hopes that's true. He'd like to think it is. But he's so fucking aware of how horribly he behaved, unable to escape the fact of it no matter how much time passes, and it's so easy for him to worry. Getting it into his head that S might worry about that, he was unable to shake his own anxiety about the possibility. It's terrifying much of the time, not being sure, not trusting himself, not being able to tell himself for a fact that he's seeing things correctly or that he'll behave the right way. S trusts him when he can't, though. Even if he has trouble making himself remember that, he can hear it now and try to take it to heart.

With a quiet hum of agreement, he tugs gently at S's shirt, giving himself a moment to find his voice. He hasn't started crying in earnest again yet, but he doesn't want to risk it, even if it's likely also inevitable. "We have," he whispers when he can. "We know. I..." He makes himself breathe in deeply, exhale slowly. He should have known better. Turning away from talking about it just because it would hurt to do so was a foolish, cowardly move, and one he makes again and again. "I should have told you. I should know that now. I just get stuck thinking how it's my fault, and I —" He shakes his head, more words caught in his mind that he's not sure he dares blurt out here where they might yet be seen. As haunted as he remains by the crimes he committed, he feels nearly as guilty for the way he treated S, if not equally so. That probably says something awful about him, but he doesn't think there's really anything good that can be said about him based on all that anyway. "It gets so big that I forget how... twisted things get in my mind. I just think it's all true."

S shakes his head, though it's not so much outright disagreement as not wanting J to lay all the blame for this on himself. It was both of them; it took both of them to get here. The same has been true from the start, really. Maybe J shouldn't have been snappish and competitive, but S shouldn't have kept holding on to something already slipping away, trying to get things back to the way they used to be. There's no going backwards. He knows now that that's a good thing. Painful sometimes, yes, but in a way that lets them heal and figure out what to do next. Now is a prime example of that. They're both a goddamn mess, S still in tears, even if they come more quietly, but they're putting right something they've both been getting wrong. While he doesn't want to get his hopes up, doesn't even know what he would be hoping for, it still feels like there's the tiniest seed of something positive here, coaxed to life through this months-long misunderstanding.

"I should have told you, too," he murmurs, tilting his head to try to meet J's eyes again, even if his vision is blurry. "I should have asked you how you felt. You hate when I decide things for you, anyway." The last, he means to be as much of a joke as he can muster right now, something to lighten the mood for J just a tiny bit. Of course, that has historically backfired just as often as his deciding things for J has, but right now, it feels worth it. They're okay. S could never touch a piano again and they would still be okay, but it might not have to come to that after all. He doesn't know what it means for himself, but there's possibility there where that wasn't before, and that goes a long way all on its own.

Gentler this time, he shakes his head again, fingers still idly running through J's hair. "It's not all true," he adds. "And it's not your fault." He didn't really play when J was gone, either, he wants to say, something that J couldn't have had any bearing on one way or the other, but S suspects it wouldn't be received the way he meant it. Better to focus on what they can do here and now. "I was just as wrong as you were. And I'm glad I was wrong, too."