S doesn't know how long he's been thinking about this now, or when the idea first came into his head. He's not sure there was a specific moment, really, but rather a gradual realization, building since they first stumbled upon that Pride celebration just shy of two years ago now, culminating, perhaps, with a customer at the store a few weeks ago who casually mentioned being there to get a present for his husband as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Something crystallized then, becoming tangible, occupying his mind rather than remaining an idle, nonspecific desire.

Of course, he's known since he was a teenager that he would have married J in a heartbeat if that were an option available to them. They've alluded to it from time to time, too, that they would if they could, though he thinks they've both preferred not to dwell on it much, knowing it would forever be out of reach. Actually coming to terms with it being a possibility, though, has been a more complicated, ongoing process, something he's known but hasn't fully managed to feel. That might well be for the best, anyway. Had he known sooner, he probably would have dragged J off to City Hall the day after his arrival here, and while S is certain he wouldn't have regretted that, if he's going to do it, he wants to do it right, something considered, not a desperate impulse. His parents are long gone, after all, and J's mother isn't here, which means this is just for them, wholly theirs, a chance to try to show J just how very loved he is, how serious he is about this.

So he's planned, careful and deliberate. While J can read him better than anyone, S thinks he's managed not to let on that he has any ulterior motive tonight, mentioning a little while ago that they should plan a date night and stay in for it, making sure to suggest a weekend when he'll be home and can cook something from home, really go all out with it. What he's planned to make, of course, are meals he knows are J's favorites. In his pocket is a ring box he bought at an antique store; inside that is the ring of his father's he's worn since his parents died. He even has a story in case J notices its absence, though he doesn't intend to draw attention to it: that he took it to a jeweler to have it cleaned and is picking it up in a day or two. Not wearing it is, admittedly, a little strange, not least because it's all he has left of his parents' here, but he's known since he first decided to propose with a ring that it had to be this one. J is his family. That's been the case since they were children, but he knows no better way to show it than with this.

That leaves everything set except the table and the question itself, and while S doesn't actually think that J will say no, he still feels a flutter of nerves that he buries as best he can, not wanting to give J any reason to suspect that there's something wrong or something more to this than just a simple dinner in. "Ah, I hope you're hungry," he calls from the kitchen, voice suffused with warmth. "I think I made more than I meant to."

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.

Eventually, the lack of sleep was always going to catch up to him. Through three sleepless nights, or at least mostly sleepless, S knew it, exhaustion increasing, though easy enough to push past with so much else to focus on. Still, it was only ever a temporary solution at best, nothing that could have lasted much longer than it did. With that being the case, it shouldn't be such a surprise when, after that third night, on their third full day together, he hits a wall, no longer able to keep his eyes open, drifting off while sitting on the couch. He isn't expecting it all the same, though even that, he barely registers, just as he's only half-aware of J ushering him back to bed, too tired to protest or to focus on why he should.

It's different when he wakes up. S grew accustomed a long time ago to sleeping and waking up alone, though it was one of the most difficult things about all that solitude, no longer having a warm body beside him at such times. He and J shared a bed for years, even before their relationship became more than platonic, cuddling together for warmth in the one bed in their small studio when the weather began to change. Of course, he felt it then, the beginning of something more, and it wasn't all that long after that they admitted their feelings for each other, but they spent ages like that. Even when they fought, even when J would barely speak to him, he still had the anchor of J's presence at his side, the distance sometimes easier to breach that way. It was comforting, always, but like so much else, he never thought he would lose it until he did.

He had months, though, after J left, after J died. At some point, following the former, it just became routine, as sad and empty as everything else about his life, J's absence as tangible as it ever was to be with him. It shouldn't, then, have taken only three nights to change that. They've hardly been apart in that time, though, save for brief moments of one going into another room for something or other. He's spent every night holding J as he slept, so overwhelmingly grateful to be able to do so, determined to do anything in his power to keep him safe.

So, when S wakes up distinctly alone, disoriented and unaware even of how long he's been asleep, the first thing he feels is cold, sheer terror.

For moments — sometimes hours, even — at a time, he's managed not to dwell on it. It's always been there, though, never too far from his thoughts, always ready to creep back in, the memory of how J sounded that first day on his couch, what S was so fucking scared he might do, J's promise not to stay, but to try. Even that was more than S could have asked for, and yet he knows it's not a guarantee, either. And while the past couple of days have been good more often than not, there's no telling what might happen with J alone, left to his own thoughts. Believing that a couple of decent days would be enough to override all that darkness would be entirely too naïve, even for S; it isn't as if he ever stood a chance against it before, and things are far worse now than they ever were then, even if, in some ways, they're better, too. He doesn't know how long it's been, he doesn't know what might have happened, and it's too much, his chest so tight that it feels like he can't breathe. Despite still being tired and out of sorts, it takes him only moments to pull himself out of bed, trying not to move quite as frantically as he feels but unable to take his time about it.

Not so very long ago at all, he woke up to find out, not very long after, that J was already gone. Now, as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, he silently prays to whatever deities might exist that he won't be too late again. He only just got J back. He isn't at all ready to lose him again.

He's dimly aware of a few things — muffled noise that he can't distinguish, the fact that the bathroom door is still open and the light off, which is something of a relief in its own right, though he doesn't really feel it until he rounds the corner and sees J sitting on the couch, watching TV. Overwhelmed and breathless, trembling with worry, he presses his free hand to his chest, the other resting against the wall for support he's surprised to realize how much he needs. "You're alright," he finally manages to say, though it's more to himself than anything else, his voice so small he's not even sure it will be fully audible over the sound of whatever J is watching. He doesn't care, just taking in the sight of him, mercifully alive and alright, relief mingling with the panic he can't yet shake off.

Leave all mail for S here.