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don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you
"Well, I wonder how history will read this sonata."
With a sneer, the professor turns at last to leave, heading out to face the horde of people that S knows will surely be awaiting him by now, and S lets out a breath like he's been holding it, his careful composure giving way, tension easing in his shoulders. It's over. Or, maybe it's not quite over, but it's close enough to it, the professor having incriminated himself enough that he'll surely be going away for a long, long time. S didn't really expect otherwise, and he knew that he wasn't in any real danger here, physically speaking, but it feels like he can breathe a little easier all the same. It would, anyway, if not for the ache in his chest, phantom pain, perhaps, as his wounded heart races. He doesn't have to hide it now when he winces, eyes closing for a moment, his hand curling into a fist around the lapel of his coat as he presses it gently to the spot and tries to breathe through it.
He's gotten used to this, at least, and he's better than he was. A couple of months ago, he doubts he would have been able to manage even this much, still working up to spending more than a few minutes at a time on his feet, never mind doing so in such an intense situation. He should probably stop and rest now — unmic himself, call a cab, go home to his empty apartment, his role here having played itself out. S isn't sure if he could bear that yet, though, any of it. Not all that emptiness that awaits him even in such a small space, not having to go face other people before he does so. For the most part, he's kept it together these past couple hours. Lost his cool a few times, with too much too close to the surface for him to do otherwise, but he expected that if not worse, given what he was here to do, given what the professor knows about him. That may yet come to light anyway. He's not anticipating the professor to take any of this particularly quietly.
Right now, S can't bring himself to care, hasn't been able to for a while. Right now, having held so much back through this whole conversation, he feels far too frayed, too emotional, to deal with whatever steps come next. Strange as it is to linger in the professor's empty office, it's better than going back out into the world yet. Quietly, slowly, as if unsure of himself, he crosses to the piano and takes a seat on the bench, J's notebook still clutched in his hand. It's all he has left now, or close enough to it, that and an apartment they once shared full of memories, cherished and painful all at once. He feels the same now, staring down at the cover of the book with fondness he no longer has to try to mask. Chances are, no one's listening anymore anyway. If they are, he doesn't care.
"I'm sorry," he all but whispers, cutting through the otherwise silent room. It isn't nearly enough; he's sorry for so much. "Did you wish to become music in the hot flames, too?"
He doesn't know what J wanted. He'll never know. For all the answers he's gotten from the pages of J's journal, there's still so much he never got to find out — never got to say — and never will now, questions that will go forever unanswered, a space that will stay forever empty. S isn't sure how long he sits, heart aching, mind racing, tears prickling in his eyes, everything he's tried to hold at bay impossible to ignore now — all the questions he wants to ask, all the promises he wants to make, as if it will mean anything to make them to someone who won't be around to hear them. There's relief, a little bit, in just letting go, in no longer trying to maintain the careful, steely composure that he did while the professor was here, but mostly it just hurts. Even being as acquainted as he is with grief, even with as awful as his earlier losses have been, there's a different sort of emptiness here, no one at his side to see him through it this time, nothing and no one left for him. That was already the case — it has been for months — but there's an odd finality to it now, a page turned, a chapter ended. A movement completed, perhaps, ending on an unresolved chord.
When he gets to his feet again, he's crying openly, no longer really even conscious of the fact that someone still might hear him. I'll play your tears, he thinks, another silent promise, thumb caressing J's journal as softly as he once might have J's cheek, and as his breath hitches, tiny little sobs escaping him, he leans forward, practically doubling over, clutching the book to his chest as he tries to breathe.
It isn't until he straightens that he realizes things are different.
No longer in the professor's office, or even inside at all, S is, instead, in a park, though even through tear-blurred vision, he doesn't think he recognizes it. It is, at least, startling enough that it forces a sharp breath into his lungs, one hand letting go of its grip on the notebook so he can wipe at his eyes. At least it's quiet, hardly anyone seemingly nearby to see him in such a state. That's little comfort, though, when he has no idea where he is or how he got here. No matter how difficult these past months have been, he doesn't think he's snapped that completely. For that matter, hazy and half-panicked and probably nonsensical as the thought is, he doesn't think he's dead, either. However damaged, his heart wouldn't have given out quite that suddenly. Besides, he can feel it racing away now, quick and unsteady with fear.
Although he has no desire to be seen like this, or, worse, to explain himself, he can't just do nothing. Clearing his throat a little, he lifts his head a bit when someone seems to be approaching, though his voice comes out smaller and more uncertain than he would like. "Ah, excuse me," he says. "Can you tell me where I am, please?"
With a sneer, the professor turns at last to leave, heading out to face the horde of people that S knows will surely be awaiting him by now, and S lets out a breath like he's been holding it, his careful composure giving way, tension easing in his shoulders. It's over. Or, maybe it's not quite over, but it's close enough to it, the professor having incriminated himself enough that he'll surely be going away for a long, long time. S didn't really expect otherwise, and he knew that he wasn't in any real danger here, physically speaking, but it feels like he can breathe a little easier all the same. It would, anyway, if not for the ache in his chest, phantom pain, perhaps, as his wounded heart races. He doesn't have to hide it now when he winces, eyes closing for a moment, his hand curling into a fist around the lapel of his coat as he presses it gently to the spot and tries to breathe through it.
He's gotten used to this, at least, and he's better than he was. A couple of months ago, he doubts he would have been able to manage even this much, still working up to spending more than a few minutes at a time on his feet, never mind doing so in such an intense situation. He should probably stop and rest now — unmic himself, call a cab, go home to his empty apartment, his role here having played itself out. S isn't sure if he could bear that yet, though, any of it. Not all that emptiness that awaits him even in such a small space, not having to go face other people before he does so. For the most part, he's kept it together these past couple hours. Lost his cool a few times, with too much too close to the surface for him to do otherwise, but he expected that if not worse, given what he was here to do, given what the professor knows about him. That may yet come to light anyway. He's not anticipating the professor to take any of this particularly quietly.
Right now, S can't bring himself to care, hasn't been able to for a while. Right now, having held so much back through this whole conversation, he feels far too frayed, too emotional, to deal with whatever steps come next. Strange as it is to linger in the professor's empty office, it's better than going back out into the world yet. Quietly, slowly, as if unsure of himself, he crosses to the piano and takes a seat on the bench, J's notebook still clutched in his hand. It's all he has left now, or close enough to it, that and an apartment they once shared full of memories, cherished and painful all at once. He feels the same now, staring down at the cover of the book with fondness he no longer has to try to mask. Chances are, no one's listening anymore anyway. If they are, he doesn't care.
"I'm sorry," he all but whispers, cutting through the otherwise silent room. It isn't nearly enough; he's sorry for so much. "Did you wish to become music in the hot flames, too?"
He doesn't know what J wanted. He'll never know. For all the answers he's gotten from the pages of J's journal, there's still so much he never got to find out — never got to say — and never will now, questions that will go forever unanswered, a space that will stay forever empty. S isn't sure how long he sits, heart aching, mind racing, tears prickling in his eyes, everything he's tried to hold at bay impossible to ignore now — all the questions he wants to ask, all the promises he wants to make, as if it will mean anything to make them to someone who won't be around to hear them. There's relief, a little bit, in just letting go, in no longer trying to maintain the careful, steely composure that he did while the professor was here, but mostly it just hurts. Even being as acquainted as he is with grief, even with as awful as his earlier losses have been, there's a different sort of emptiness here, no one at his side to see him through it this time, nothing and no one left for him. That was already the case — it has been for months — but there's an odd finality to it now, a page turned, a chapter ended. A movement completed, perhaps, ending on an unresolved chord.
When he gets to his feet again, he's crying openly, no longer really even conscious of the fact that someone still might hear him. I'll play your tears, he thinks, another silent promise, thumb caressing J's journal as softly as he once might have J's cheek, and as his breath hitches, tiny little sobs escaping him, he leans forward, practically doubling over, clutching the book to his chest as he tries to breathe.
It isn't until he straightens that he realizes things are different.
No longer in the professor's office, or even inside at all, S is, instead, in a park, though even through tear-blurred vision, he doesn't think he recognizes it. It is, at least, startling enough that it forces a sharp breath into his lungs, one hand letting go of its grip on the notebook so he can wipe at his eyes. At least it's quiet, hardly anyone seemingly nearby to see him in such a state. That's little comfort, though, when he has no idea where he is or how he got here. No matter how difficult these past months have been, he doesn't think he's snapped that completely. For that matter, hazy and half-panicked and probably nonsensical as the thought is, he doesn't think he's dead, either. However damaged, his heart wouldn't have given out quite that suddenly. Besides, he can feel it racing away now, quick and unsteady with fear.
Although he has no desire to be seen like this, or, worse, to explain himself, he can't just do nothing. Clearing his throat a little, he lifts his head a bit when someone seems to be approaching, though his voice comes out smaller and more uncertain than he would like. "Ah, excuse me," he says. "Can you tell me where I am, please?"