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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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."

J stifles a choked out laugh against S's neck, fingers curling tighter in his shirt. It's true, and he's been trying to think how to say something to that effect without negating all he's done in trying to get S to feel okay make decisions when it's needed. Even if he doesn't think the blame here lies as evenly between them as S does, it still helps to hear. They both had a role in this, and as hard as it is to make himself hold onto that fact, it won't do either of them any good to pretend otherwise. S was right, too, that they were both just worrying about each other. J wouldn't have worried in the same way, he's sure, if it weren't for how he behaved in the past, so the fault is still mostly his, but they both have things to learn.

"It's partly my fault," he counters, leaning his head against S's shoulder to meet his eyes — as best as he can, anyway, when his vision is all fuzzy. He blinks again, quick and fluttering, trying to will his eyes to focus. "Mostly. But you were wrong, yes. I... I don't hate it as much anymore, you know. You deciding things. Sometimes I need you to. But... those are different things." Making a grocery list or deciding where to go on the weekend is something entirely separate from deciding how J might feel about a thing, after all — something he needs to take care to remember, too. Sometimes J is too worn out and unfocused to realize he needs to go to bed or eat a meal or take a shower, and he needs, at those times, for S to prompt him gently to take care of himself or to decide what they should eat. "It's different," he adds, having settled on how to put it, "deciding what we should do, not how I feel. It's what a partner does. I shouldn't have assumed for you either."

For his part, he was scared that bringing it up would be worse than not doing so, but he's sure S had the same concern. They thought they were mitigating damage, not causing it. Maybe, in the future, he thinks, they just have to brave the fallout of discussing the things he doesn't want to say. It's just so fucking hard to talk about the past, even when he doesn't go a day without thinking about it.

S isn't sure about the mostly, either, inclined to say it's fairly even on each of their parts. They were both trying to protect each other, and they both managed to assume the opposite of the truth. That would be laughable, too, if it weren't so fucking sad. For months, since he first got the job here, he's tried to avoid talking about piano whenever possible, offering to let J try it here and encouraging him to do so at Kagura but not playing so much as a note himself. Just a few minutes ago, he felt guilty and almost ashamed, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have been. With what J has said since, it seems stupid now, although he can't see how he could have done otherwise. Of course he stopped; of course he thought it would hurt to hear him. The alternative isn't something he ever even considered. Even as he knows, though, that it makes sense for him to have felt the way he did, he still should have said something, at least told J what was going through his head instead of assuming that they were on the same page. No matter how close they are, no matter how well they know each other, they've done a lot of this sort of thing, after all.

"Neither of us should have," he agrees with a slight nod. For that matter, it hurts a little that J assumed he would expect yelling or fights after all this time, but he knows, too, that that has more to do with J than it does with him. It's really the same in his case, probably. His own guilt, and the belief, however misguided, that he should have given up piano long ago led him to believe that J wouldn't want to hear him play. He's still not sure what to make of the alternative — not that he was wrong, but what the truth is instead. The idea of J wanting that, missing that, makes him feel strangely sad about how distant he's grown from the instrument, but also makes him feel like there might be a chance for more than that. It will never be what it was for either of them, or what it was for both of them together, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. It definitely doesn't mean it can't be anything.

Sighing quietly, he leans into J a little, wanting to be closer, wishing they were home. They shouldn't have done this here, though he's not sure it would have come out anywhere else, under any other circumstances. "I'm sorry I did," he adds. Even if J tells him not to be, S feels all the same that the apology is not only warranted but necessary. The rest, he hesitates before he adds, nervous and a little unsure of himself, but thinking that this, too, needs to be said outright. "If you ever do... want that, want me to play for you... you can say so."

There's a strange sort of relief that always comes when S admits that J got something wrong. It's a ridiculous thing, he knows, when they're both deeply aware of how much he's fucked up in the past. Somehow, though, the fact that S can acknowledge the smaller errors makes J feel a little better about being forgiven the bigger ones. In any case, he'd rather have been wrong trying to look out for S than having deliberately hurt him.

He wants to tell S that it's okay, that he doesn't need to apologize. All that matters right now is that they understand each other, that they've made themselves clear. S knows what he means now, why he worried, that not wanting this kind of decision made for him isn't the same thing as him not wanting S to make choices ever. It bothered him when he was younger because, as always, he was caught up in his own perception of things, projecting his fears onto S's behavior. He understands better now. Even if part of him still fears now that he'll become somehow too much, in his heart, he knows S won't let it come to that, not ever.

He wants to tell him that, to say it's alright and he understands, but there's a pause in the air, the sense of something more to come, and he waits. And in spite of this whole debacle, the way S was playing when he walked in and the mess he's made of it all and the things he's managed to say in words either blurted out or broken off, he doesn't quite expect it. He's spent more than a year now conditioning himself to believe this wasn't possible, after all. S has spent just as much time thinking the same in some way, which J thinks explains why he sounds less than certain; he knows, he knows, S wouldn't offer him something like this half-hearted, that he'd do it to make J feel better, knowing it would make him feel worse if it hurt S in any way. These things rattle around in his head, fluffing their feathers, not settling long enough to become still or whole, as his throat goes tight, tears welling up inexorably.

"Are you sure?" he asks anyway, quiet only because it's hard to get his words out at all with his throat and heart aching. He feels like he's shaking. He wants it too much. Maybe that's stupid, some part of him trying desperately to recapture parts of a past he's done his best to let go of, but he can't help himself. Those parts, at least, were worth recapturing. If nothing else, he was so, so certain that he couldn't have that because he'd fucked up in a way that was impossible to fix. Even if S only played for him again once, maybe it would put that terrible voice to rest, or at least this particular line of its rhetorical weaponry. He just wants to know it's real and okay. "I do want that."

With all they've just discussed, even in the face of his own nervousness saying so, S isn't expecting such a strong reaction on J's part. It makes him feel, of all things, a little guilty all over again. Had he not so stupidly assumed he knew how J would feel about it, maybe it wouldn't have to be such a big deal. God knows it was once utterly inconsequential, something they both just did daily, a cornerstone of their relationship from the time they were first becoming friends. It hurts to see J so shaken, so moved, by S's mere offer of playing. He never wanted it to be like this, for the thing they both loved so much to do so much damage to both of them in so many different ways. Music used to be the easiest thing in the world for him — not that he didn't sometimes struggle to play a piece or try to write one, but all of it just made sense to him, as natural and instinctive as loving J. It was order and logic in a world often lacking both. He'd look at black marks on paper and understand how they related to each other, set his fingers on the corresponding keys and know how to move his hands to make them come out right.

He's felt guilty for that sometimes, too. Had it not come to him quite so naturally, maybe J wouldn't have begun to feel like he came up short in comparison. It's not as if S didn't still work for it, and of the two of them, he's always believed J to be the more talented of them, anyway. He's decent, of course, he knows he is, albeit not as much so as he used to be. The thought of that makes him a little nervous now, too, ashamed of how distant he's grown from what he used to love so much. And that's probably stupid, he knows, when he wouldn't have judged J for a second for being out of practice that day at Kagura, but he can't help it if he's insecure now in ways he wasn't before. Besides, when he had no idea it would mean this much to J, S doesn't want to disappoint him now.

"You said before... that you didn't want me to feel pressured," he murmurs, ducking his head, expression thoughtful. "But hearing you say it is... it lets me feel like I can." Saying it out loud like that feels unbelievably stupid, but it's true all the same. He lifts one shoulder, a corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest bit along with it. "I would never mind playing. I'd just want to know that you'd want to hear it."

J turns his head, hiding his face against S's shoulder for a few moments. It feels foolish to be overwhelmed by this, to want it this much. It's not really about what S plays, in the end, just that he plays, that he wants to, that he can. It's about how J has to fight his way to feeling bit by bit like he hasn't ruined everything. Things are different now, but parts of the past are worth preserving.

He wants to explain that. He wants to tell S what it means to him, except he doesn't yet know how to put it into words himself. There's a whole part of their life, their story, that he thought he'd cut himself off from forever, and here S is, giving it back, opening it up to him again. "I do," he says again, a little petulant, a little more embarrassed. He sniffles, head turning slowly again so he can glance up at S, hair just slightly in the way. "I... I miss it. And sitting together and music and..." He sighs. It isn't, precisely, the past itself he longs for or even those particular moments. It's the comfort and ease they once felt over this shared pastime, something that brought them so close together. It's how their love story began, how the next chapter unfolded when he accidentally let his secrets spill out of him.

"We were at the piano," he murmurs, "when I told you. When we first kissed. We shared that. I thought I'd made it so we never could again." He doesn't know if they'll ever play together like they did before. He wouldn't want to try yet, when it's a big enough gift to hear S play at all. But it would be enough just to sit there and watch him and listen, to take back one more thing he thought he wrecked. "So... so yes. I do want to hear."

S doesn't know how to say — doesn't want to say — that he thought the same thing, except for the part about J making it that way. It happened. There were so many different factors at play, and he still doesn't understand all of it. He knows he wasn't blameless, though, just like he knows that some of it was purely circumstantial, and that part, too, was that piece that J has called the voice, coming from him but not really him, not entirely. The way it fell apart could never have been just one person's doing, largely because of what J has just said. They shared it for so long. When they were still together, S never stopped trying to share it, but he thinks that did a fair amount of damage in itself, considering how fraught things had become. Had he not continued pushing, had he stepped away, maybe it wouldn't have been quite so bad. There are a dozen different what ifs, and he knows he can't get hung up on them, that it's impossible to determine what could actually have changed, but he's sure even so that it isn't solely on J.

"You say that like I could ever have forgotten," he says quietly, just barely teasing, turning his head to press a soft kiss to J's damp cheek. Of course he couldn't. Everything about that night is permanently etched into his memory — the Christmas season making the loss of his parents that much harder again, J playing the song he wrote for him to try to cheer him up, coaxing him over to the piano and then admitting how he felt, S's heart racing because he thought it was just him. That first careful kiss, learning that he was allowed something he was sure would be out of reach. The piano was always there, always a part of it. This past year, it's been nice to have proof of how strong their relationship can be without it, but that hasn't stopped him from missing when they shared it.

He huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, his nose scrunching as he tries again to dry his face a little, eyes tired from crying. "Ah, I'm a mess," he mumbles. "How'd I wind up crying so much?"

There's so much affection and warmth in S's voice and that gentle kiss that it threatens to overwhelm J again. It's nothing new, all that tenderness, but that's perhaps precisely why. They've shared half their lives now and more; they'll share the rest of it, too, and that love doesn't dim, no matter what they throw at it. If anything, it shines brighter now for all they've put it through.

He tries to laugh at S's question, and it comes out small and broken, almost a whimper, which is so ridiculous that it does make him laugh a little. Clinging to S still, he shakes his head. He should try to dry his own eyes, he knows, but he doesn't want to let go even that much or that briefly, not yet. "I started it," he says, not so much a self-accusation as an explanation. "You always cry if I do." He huffs out another laugh, wrinkling up his nose at himself. "And I always cry if you do." It's absurd, really, but he can't help it and neither can S. They're too closely intertwined.

Resolving to do better isn't enough. He's done it countless times now, after all, and they still end up in messes like this. It's a start, though, and how they also get out of these messes, so he does so again. One of these days, he thinks, it might actually stick. He's made so much progress this last year, even if he frequently feels like he's sliding backwards, and he knows that it's due to S. Of course, J knows, he's the one who had to push and work and put in the effort, and he's the one who'll have to keep doing so. The truth is, though, he doesn't know if he could have done it solely for his own good. He'd thought himself too much of a lost cause. But for S, he could do anything.

Still sniffling, still clinging to S one-handed, he lifts the other at last to swipe away the lingering tears. "I love you. Anyway, we're both messes."

S smiles at that, weak but indescribably fond, still holding onto J in turn. As much as he hates seeing J so upset, and he really does, there's something sweet about J like this, all soft and clingy. Despite how long they've been here now, and on so much steadier ground than before, there's always some relief, too, in being able to talk through something like this without it coming to a fight. They misunderstood each other at first, but they said what they needed to and they've wound up better off for it, or he thinks they have, hopes they have. Somewhere in the back of his head is the possibility that this could still go wrong — reopen old wounds, rekindle the sense of competition that came between them before — but he hopes it won't. That has to be enough. Like J said a few moments ago, they were happy together for much longer than they weren't, and music was part of that. It used to be something they shared. Even if neither of them ever feels about it the way they once did, even if they don't play together like they did when they were younger, there's no sense in letting the time when it went wrong negate the time that it was right.

"I love you," he echoes. "So much." It's a love big enough that he'd have been more than willing never to touch a piano again if it would do them any good, though he sees no need to point out that hypothetical now. While he thought until not very long ago at all that it might come to that, or should have, he knows now that he was reading everything all wrong. The last thing they need is to go back to talking themselves in circles over it. "Even when we're both messes."

As true as it is that he tends to start crying when J does, in this case, it wasn't even what set him off. Being told that J missed hearing him play is what did that, the very fact of it still leaving S slightly stunned, so at odds with what he's spent all these months believing. "Will you sit with me for a minute?"

In spite of his offer, he's not sure he could play quite yet, all sniffly and bleary-eyed. He does want to get off his feet, though, and regain his bearings, as long as he can stay close to J while he does so.

Though J isn't much inclined to pull away right now, sitting down sounds really nice. He was walking around for a while before he came here, and now he's a little wobbly from all the emotion and adrenaline, too. It might help, really, to sit for a bit as his nerves recover. At this point, he's cried so much that he's careful even to avoid nodding, not wanting to make himself dizzy.

Even so, he hesitates a moment. There is, as far as he's aware, nowhere to sit here except at the piano. It's precisely where S means, probably, if only for that reason, but it still feels like a big step. They've only sat together like that a very small handful of times in the last half a year, and not at all for a long time before that, so long that J doesn't actually recall what the last time was. When he played again at Kagura, he was so caught on the fact of what he was doing that that bit, while noteworthy, wasn't quite as striking as it is now.

Still, they need to sit and there's really nowhere else and it's not like J doesn't want to; he's just aware. Lifting his head, he tugs at S's shirt, drawing him close enough to kiss. "Of course," he murmurs when he draws back, pulling slowly away, reaching for S's hands. Fingers intertwined, he leads S along with him toward the piano, his heart leaping wildly. "Over here." He sits slowly, carefully, knowing he's off balance enough he could tip over if he doesn't, and he doesn't want to make this more of a mess than it is. Even so, he doesn't let go of S's hands, letting out a quiet sigh at the relief of sitting. "Better?"

Even now, S can't help wishing a little that there were somewhere else more convenient for them to sit, though he knows there's no reason for there to be. People come here to look at and buy instruments and music, not to sit on a couch. It would be better, though, just to curl up for a while rather than having to go over to a piano right now. Whether or not he plays today, putting them both there when emotions are already running so high might be a step too far, too fast. It's all that makes sense, though, and it'll be good for them both to get off their feet for a few minutes, catch their breath, settle down. They're alright. Over and over, S keeps telling himself that, awed and relieved. Stunned, too, though less because of that — given what they've survived so far, he really does have to believe that they could get through anything — than because of what J has told him. It's a lot to take in, still so unexpected.

Maybe it's actually a good thing, then, to be where they are, his hands in J's as he takes a seat close beside him on the piano bench like he's done so many countless times before, leaning his head on J's shoulder as soon as he's done so. Being here, in this close proximity to a piano, might help this development seem more real. If nothing else, he has the small but distinct sense that he wants it to be, one more thing he wouldn't have let himself feel before now. It's something he's still wary of, not wanting to fuck this up, but it feels even so like a door that he thought was closed and locked for good has been opened a crack, and that makes all the difference in the world.

"Better," he agrees, his voice soft, as he lifts one of J's hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He almost leaves it at that, but after a quiet moment, just a bit wistful, he adds, "We spent so much time sitting like this, didn't we?"

J turns his head, brushing a kiss against S's hair, a soft laugh muffled there. "So much time," he says, hushed. There may not be anyone else here, but that's never mattered. Some things are meant so utterly just for the two of them, there's no need to speak any louder. When S kisses his hand like that, when there's a beautiful instrument in front of them, he doesn't want to break the moment.

"Nearly every day," he adds. It may not actually have been every single day — he knows that, for much of his life, he played every day, if only a very tiny bit, but there were plenty of times they just didn't have a chance to sit together like this, bogged down in work and studies. It was near enough, though, just a simple, ordinary part of their lives. It was home. He really doesn't want to go backwards. As happy as they were, they weren't equipped to handle how he changed. They're better prepared now.

He smiles a bit brighter, though it'd be hard to tell, his face hidden against S's hair like this. "Though this is a little bit nicer than the one we had. On the surface, anyway." On the surface, it's a hell of a lot nicer, a much better quality and type of piano than the one they owned. He never cared, though. It worked and they knew the instrument well, knew how to coax beauty out of it. He used to dream of playing something like this. He's not sure he really wants to today, but maybe he'll come back again sometime and try it after all.

Although he may not be able to see much of J like this, S can hear the shift in his voice that suggests he's smiling, that alone an unspeakable relief. For such a long time, thinking about that part of their past did nothing but leave him miserable and lonely. Here, it hasn't been nearly as bad as that, but there's still been something bittersweet about dwelling on something long gone and out of reach, a time they could never get back. That last part is still true. He wouldn't want to go back to it, no matter how much he misses that time in their lives. It fell apart back then, after all. Only here have they been able to rebuild. He'd thought that, in doing so, it would be better, safer, not to have this. It's nice to consider that maybe he was wrong, that, if nothing else, they can still sit at a piano together, pleasantly reminiscing about the good parts of their earlier life together.

"Ah, much nicer on the surface," he agrees, smiling in turn. "I used to imagine that we'd have a piano like this one day. And the space for it. It's practically the size of our whole studio." It's an exaggeration, of course, but it isn't one at all to say that even if they'd had the money, they wouldn't have been able to house a piano of this size in their small little apartment. There'd have been no room for other furniture or for the two of them to move around.

He never minded that. He was always happy with what they had; still, even all this time later, he thinks he would take the upright piano that they had in their studio over one as fine as this. That was the one he grew up playing, after all, that he brought from his childhood home when they moved in together. "Playing this one still feels strange sometimes. Like I'm getting away with something."

That draws another hushed laugh from J, and he rests his head against S's. He remembers being hardly more than a kid, living in that studio together, the strange combination of content and restless he was back then. He dreamed of so much more. A piano like this was high up the list of things he wanted, and a home bigger and better than what they shared. At the same time, he didn't really mind the size of it, not at the start, not until he started to take umbrage with nearly everything. The heat in summer bothered him more than sharing a small bed when they would have wound up curled around each other anyway.

What they have now... There are costs, of course. Deep down, he knows they couldn't have had this kind of life back home, and being here — well, he doesn't see how he can ever leave. He doesn't have a back home to return to now. But it feels miraculous — it is — to be as comfortable and stable as they are, as safe as they could ever dream of being.

"Ah, I'm sure," he says wryly, briefly thinking of reaching out and touching the keys himself. The one at Kagura is beautiful, too, and he spent significant parts of the winter waiting for someone to chase him away from it. Right now, though, he's tired and wobbly and wants nothing more than to keep hold of S. "But that's part of the fun sometimes, isn't it?" It's probably a bad impulse, but he enjoys that feeling at times — tugging S around a corner and out of sight to steal a kiss when they were teenagers or even now when they go out as a couple and do things he couldn't have justified before, dates and movies and that kind of thing. The desire to get what he wants outweighing the knowledge it's a bad idea is one of his worser habits, all things considered. "And very romantic. Illicit piano playing."

Wrung out as he feels from being so emotional, moments like these are some of S's favorites in their relationship. That first while J was here, it isn't that S didn't trust him, but he still couldn't help expecting everything to go wrong somehow, any burst of emotion like this or disagreement making him hold his breath and wonder if they were about to fuck everything up all over again. Even continuing to talk about something that holds so much weight for them, though, they're fine now, finding ways to enjoy those memories instead of being dragged down by them. Skeptical as he may have been at first, he thinks now that it's a good thing that they're discussing it, finding a way to hold onto the thing they both loved so much. Whether they did or not, after all, it would always have been there. All that time and all that passion doesn't just disintegrate. They can still love it without loving it like they did before.

"Only romantic for us," he teases, giving J a gentle little nudge. That's all that matters, though, whether it is to them or not, and he isn't about to argue on either front. It is fun to feel like he's getting away with something he shouldn't be able to do, especially when he knows that's not true. His boss and his coworkers know he plays, and it's hardly as if he's the only person on staff here who's also a musician. It's safe and yet surreal, something that would at the absolute least have been out of reach back in Seoul for a long, long time. "But it is. Not that we ever needed it to be illicit to be romantic."

He doesn't want to ruin this again, but he doesn't want to talk around what they only just finally managed to address head-on, either. Still leaning against J's side, head on his shoulder, S slowly lifts his outside hand, fingertips grazing the smooth, glossy keys. "I don't know if I should play more now. Or what I'd play if I did."

J nearly points out that their relationship was, by default, illicit enough on its own back then. But S lifts his hand and J feels it in the slight shift of his body before he sees it, still familiar after all this time. The sight of it makes his heart ache, but comfortably now, spotting home in the distance after a long time away.

"You can if you want," he says. As badly as he wants to hear what S would play, that's not even the part that matters most to him right now. That S would even consider it, that they've talked about it now and he knows S feels safe to do so, matters more than whether or not it happens now. They're both finding their way back to this, even if their paths are different now. "Whatever you feel like." Carefully, he slips his hand from S's, bringing it to rest on his thigh instead, close and, he hopes, still reassuring. If S wants to play, he'll have both hands free now, and J won't have to pull away or stop touching him for that to happen. "And if not, I can come back another time."

His mind circles back to what he was going to say a moment ago, and he laughs again, quiet but there. "Our idea of romantic is different from most people's in general, I think." Though he tries not to think too much about certain things, he vaguely recalls once having found it at once endearing and attractive that S had thought of committing murder to avenge him, and he still finds it extremely romantic that S continues to choose him, to want him, in spite of everything. At this point, he doesn't think they have any say at all as to whether or not they love each other, but no one, least of all himself, could have faulted S for not wanting to take this relationship back on after all that's happened. It's not always easy, being with J, he knows that, but S never makes him feel like it's hard either or not worth the trouble.

It's such a small gesture, J's hand unlacing from his to rest on his leg instead. The meaning of it — the quiet encouragement in it — is clear, though, echoed by the words that accompany it. Even now, there's a part of S that wishes for something more overt, an express request of some kind, but at least he knows now that they're coming at this from opposite perspectives. Where he might need to know that this is not only allowed, but wanted, it's clear that J needs to know that he's choosing this himself, not feeling pushed or cornered into it. This, then, might be the best middle ground for both of them, a tiny sign for him to continue that leaves it still in his hands. In a way, what J says helps, too. The fact that he would come back for this says a lot about how much he must really want it. If he didn't, it would be easy to let it go, to leave it at not today and simply never revisit the idea, no harm done.

Still S is tentative, though he knows that's more to do with himself than with J or any fear of this going badly. It's been such a long time since he's done this, and he's not sure if the last time, that last night, should even count. He played because J asked him to, but it was short-lived and ended disastrously, perhaps even doing more harm to the situation, if that's actually possible. Before then, it had been nearly a year since they'd seen each other at all; now, it's been more than a year here that they've been together but he's carefully avoided playing the piano around J. In light of everything they've just said, though, it doesn't feel like going backwards, revisiting a time that's long gone. It feels at least like it could be starting something new, figuring it out as they go. He hopes that proves to be the case, anyway.

"That's probably true," he murmurs, soft and fond, turning his head to press a kiss to J's cheek again. "But I like it that way." When he looks back at the piano, he's quiet for a moment, thoughtful, considering his options. He could stop and save this for later, let the conversation they've had be enough of a step forward for the time being. If he puts it off, though, he's not sure if or when he'll take that initiative again. And if he does play, he has to decide what. Going back to the Tchaikovsky seems wrong now; it's too melancholy for this moment, when they're likely enough to wind up emotional anyway. For the same reason, so does something too upbeat seem like it would be out of place.

Finally, taking a slow, deep breath, he brings his other hand up to the keys, letting them rest there, focusing on the steady warmth of J beside him. Then, after another moment, he begins to play Debussy's "Rêverie," delicate and wistful. It's always been one of his favorites, and it seems right for this moment, a memory and something new all at once.

J smiles, head ever so slightly turned so he can see S without openly staring. It's a position he perfected as a teenager, quietly, awkwardly in love, trying not to be terribly obvious. Actually, he thinks, he liked perfected it before he even understood why. He watches like this, waiting, S's contemplative silence enough to make him want to keep quiet in turn. He knows how it feels when S is considering something, the pause of him weighing his options. Whatever he decides on, J wants it to be his. If he wants to wait, if he dives in, it's his choice to make, not J's, and J tries to keep the weight of his longing in check. He got good at that as a teenager, too.

It's not until he hears the slow, deliberate breath S takes, preparing to play, that J realizes he's all but holding his own. He takes one to match, or tries to; it catches in his throat as S's fingers grace the keys.

It's a beautiful piece, one it takes J a moment to place. He hasn't listened very much to classical pieces since he came here. He's tentative when it comes to music in general, wanting and still unsure. Even before he recalls the name and composer, though, he feels the rightness of it, wandering and longing and thoughtful, coaxing and curious. S's touch is light and deft, and J can feel his heart reply, fluttering untethered in his chest. He knew the day he came here that he'd been forgiven, whether or not he deserved it. He's not even sure S has ever actually said those words, I forgive you. It's never been necessary. But this, getting to sit next to S and listen to him again, in spite of all he did wrong over the years — it makes him feel it all over again. Warmed through and aching at once, he closes his eyes, and it's enough to hold back the tears that well up again for now. He's missed this and he's grateful for it, soaking in the beauty of Debussy's work and S's skill like parched land after a long-awaited rain. For a while, music and what it means to him has been a difficult thing to wrap his head around, but like this, he can feel it again, just for a while, the notes soothing him as delicately and with as much certainty as ever.

Most of the time, when S plays now, he doesn't do so with any particular degree of seriousness. He doesn't take it too lightly, but he plays only for the sake of it — for fun, and to not fall totally out of practice. Sometimes there are coworkers around, but he's certainly not playing for an audience or any kind of achievement these days. Now, though, there's a weight to it that he isn't used to, making him hyper-aware of every note he plays, every shift of his hands. He's not as good as he used to be, and he knows it. There's nothing about their current situation to suggest that J will judge or think less of him for it, but S can't help feeling self-conscious even so, worried he'll somehow disappoint. The insecurity isn't a very familiar one — he was always calmly confident before, knowing that he could play well, but not seeing himself the way J did — but there have been a good few of those over the last year. Having another now, when everything about this has changed, isn't such a surprise.

All he can really do is continue, likewise incredibly aware of J beside him. For so long, he tried not to let himself miss this. It was easier to give himself distance from music, even while surrounding himself with it. Now that they're here, he's too nervous for it to feel right yet, the way it did from the time they were children, but it's not wrong. Even if he pointedly cannot bring himself to look over at J, not wanting to break his concentration or grow too emotional, he can practically sense the energy being given off, a distinct lack of the old tension. This is something different. It should be.

About halfway through, he tapers off, breath shallow, chest tight. His hands linger there against the keys, and then he lets them fall to his lap again, one resting warm and gentle over J's. Only then does he turn again, eyes wide with uncertainty and, despite himself, just a trace of hope. "Is this alright?" he asks, quiet, just for J. It should be obvious, probably, but he has to be sure. "Are you..."

The music softens and stops, but J doesn't open his eyes yet. He closes them a little tighter, in fact, silently urging the tears to stay back. He doesn't want S to see them and misunderstand. It's not quite enough — it never actually works, though he always tries — and he can feel one or two slip free even as he nods. There's a deep ache in his chest, pushing against his ribs, but it is, he thinks, a good kind. Mostly good, at least, if not wholly so. It's too early to tell, too hard to wrap his head around his emotions just yet.

The way S plays has changed a little. Not enough to make J feel he's missed out on some part of S's growth, but enough that he can notice, can hear that S hasn't played seriously in some time, but that he's still good, if a little less sure than he used to be. J can't fault him that. He's the same now. Well, a lot less sure, in his case, but they're both somewhat out of practice these days. He's glad that S hasn't let go of playing entirely. That's what matters — that he can still play, that he wants to, that he's allowed J to sit here and listen.

Making a soft sound of agreement, he sniffs, reaching up with his free hand to rub the heel of it over his cheek. "Yes," he murmurs. "It's alright. I'm alright." He lets out a small, helpless, embarrassed laugh, glancing over at S finally, his eyes wide and wet. A long time ago, he asked S to play for him one last time. For more than a year now, he thinks, he really believed that was what happened that night. Now it's not true anymore, another part of it falling away, as if they're undoing a curse piece by piece and he's fighting his way back to the world, casting off the remaining binds of some dark and terrible spell. As in most fairy tales, they've stepped into their future with their innocence left behind them, but it is, he thinks, a brighter future than they could have hoped for two years ago. "It's pretty. You're pretty."

That there are a few fresh tear tracks running down J's cheeks when S looks over doesn't come as much of a surprise. They were both emotional already, after all, and this is no insignificant turn of events. For his own part, he thinks, there's an extent to which he's instinctively keeping himself at a distance from it. He really never thought he would do this again — sit and play the piano with J beside him, wanting him to play, not turning it into a competition or a fight. It's not the best of what it was, when it felt like home to be right here, the two of them making music together, but it's a far cry from the worst of what it was, too. If nothing else, it feels safe. He doesn't know where they'll go from here, but he doesn't need to. It's enough to have wound up here, to be able to take this step after so, so long.

"You're pretty," he counters gently. There's fondness still in his voice, and a hint of teasing, but relief, too. No matter what either of them may have said, he didn't know how this would actually go until he'd actually done it. As J has said, though, it's alright. They're both a mess, even if S mercifully hasn't started crying again himself yet, but they're alright. It seems silly now ever to have feared that they wouldn't be. They've weathered so much worse than this. Of course, he still wouldn't have wanted to hurt J unnecessarily, particularly in bringing up a subject that was so fraught for them for so long, but even so, he should have known better.

At least they're here now. Leaning in, he presses a soft, brief kiss to the corner of J's mouth, nose brushing against his cheek. "I'm glad you're alright," he murmurs. It doesn't seem quite right — doesn't begin to encompass all the complicated feelings he has surrounding this — but he thinks J might understand even so. "Ah, I haven't played for anyone else in such a long time."