counterpoint

say it like you mean it

blurb: in which it's the whisper challenge: bonus round, and eddy's trying to make brett understand something.

→ whisper challenge confession au

warnings: expletives

title from say it, just say it by the mowgli's.

• • •

he doesn't know why he suggests it.

"another round?"

(on second thought, maybe he does. goddamnit.)

brett's bent at the waist, halfway into packing up his violin into his case when the question comes. he looks up, smiling curiously; eddy just barely resists the urge to fidget in his seat. "another round? uh, okay, sure." brett shrugs and straightens up, clearly expecting eddy to take the headphones, but then they're sliding in his direction and he's raising an eyebrow at them. "what, my turn again?"

"yeah, i need you to do more scales." it's—not really a bad excuse, per se, but eddy's already mortified enough about the prospect of potential rejection and embarrassment that he thinks it's absolutely shit. still: that teasing jab's in the air now. might as well make use of it. "you need more practice."

"yeah, yeah, whatever." brett rolls his eyes, securing the headphones on his head and then nodding once in eddy's direction. "okay, i'm ready."

and.

there's always something debilitating about a confession. no matter how many times you've said the words, hundreds and even thousands of times before, there's something all-too-vulnerable about the thought that you're putting yourself at the mercy of someone who matters. it's like placing a knife in their hands and lying down at their feet all butterflied, waiting to see if the blade's going into your gut or flung to the ground.

in the end, it's not about the words, not really. it's about the audience. it's about whose ears are waiting to receive them.

(there it is, all on the line. take a deep breath. say the magic words.)

"i love you."

brett squints at him. "what?"

"i love you."

brett mouths the syllables he's seeing on eddy's lips to himself, gaze unfocused for a few moments, and then: "milieu?"

"no," eddy says, shaking his head. what the fuck even is a milieu? "i love you."

"caribou? wait, fuck, that's not a musical term."

"neither was milieu," eddy grins, and okay, shit, maybe they're both idiots. maybe he doesn't have to say it like this. maybe he can call it a day, and brett can play his scales, and then he'd laugh, and they both go back to the status quo, the way things have always been. back to both eyes squeezed shut, mouth zipped tight, willfully ignoring that persistent ache echoing in the expanse of his ribs, day after day after day. he could just say fuck it and never think about the way his world revolves around brett yang ever again. he could.

but then he'd be a coward, wouldn't he?

brett deserves—well. he deserves everything. and if he's going to do this at all, he is going to do this right.

and so eddy says the words again, and his partner continues to fumble. "olive juice? no, uh—colorful? color—like tone color? timbre?" his laughter's probably louder than the music in the headphones by now; it's fucking hilarious, is what it is. brett snorts and starts to reach for his violin. "nah, man, i got nothing. i give up."

"don't give up yet, bro." eddy holds up a hand, his fingers splayed: no, not yet. "one last time, okay? freebie chance. focus on me."

and wow, miracle of miracles, but brett listens.

(here's the hard part. it's the one that requires bravery.)

all those years of charades and challenges has brought him to this knife's edge, tension strung tight like the worn threads on his smallest pair of socks. this is where the road ends. the final challenge, as it were. he takes a deep breath. looks into the eyes of the person that makes the ground beneath his feet shift and tremble without even knowing it. and he begins.

(here's the harder part. it's the one that requires creativity.)

"i," eddy says the words out loud as he takes brett's hand, places it to his chest above the thundering heart within it, here, it's me, it's me, "love," and he places his own hand over his best friend's, holding it tight and warm and safe, adoration and affection and always, "you," and he brings their entwined hands together towards brett's chest, towards that heart eddy cherishes above all others, you, everything, all of these for you.

and brett stares, mouth fallen open, not a facial muscle twitching at all.

(here's the hardest part. it's the one that requires patience.)

but then eddy's never been good at being patient, not when it feels like even the air in his lungs is frozen, crystalline.

"so?" the word tumbles out of his mouth all feeble, a baby deer brought into the world just seconds before. "did you figure it out?"

brett blinks once, twice. opens his mouth once, shuts it again. and then, with a slow-growing smile that makes the organ in eddy's chest hop around like a deranged bunny: "yeah, i got it, but i didn't need a fucking handicap. you're not supposed to mime anything, okay, i'm insulted. i could've gotten that if you'd just mouthed it properly."

oxygen reappears in the world like it's just finished a disappearing act. eddy heaves a shuddering breath and shakes his head, closing his eyes against the sharp sense of relief in his stomach. "fuck you." he's suddenly pulled forward, right into the soft fabric of brett's jumper. he can hear the mad rush of a wild heartbeat under his ear, and god, it's almost too much. "say it back."

"i'll say it back if you say it again when i can actually hear it, asshole," brett tells him, and so eddy does.

eddy does.