Broken String

VIII

"Hey! You home already? How did the Pag go?"
Brett has stepped in the door and is putting his things down. Eddy shakes the wok and shrugs. 
"It was a train wreck, like you predicted."
"Wait, what?"
Brett rushes over to him, his eyes wide and bleak, and Eddy instantly feels like an arsehole for sounding so snippy. 
"Eddy, I didn't predict..." he says softly, almost shyly. "Eddy. Look. Maybe I overstepped, last night? I really didn't mean to say you can't play four. I'm sure you can. You know that, yeah?"
Eddy shrugs again. 
"Well, evidently I can't."
"You can." Brett states again. "You just have a lot to do at the same time right now. That's all I was trying to say. Wow. Mapu tofu? Smells awesome."
Eddy knows very well that Brett is trying to change the subject, probably to soften the blow. Is there anyone in the world he knows better? Is that why his comment chafes? Or does it chafe because he was right the whole time? 
"Yeah, I know." he says. "Imma think about it. Can you put some bowls out? Rice should be done, too."
"Yeah." Brett answers. His mouth tenses in a thin line, but he says nothing, he just turns, takes bowls out of the cupboard, chopsticks out of the drawer, and opens the rice cooker. "I'm starving."
"Good, 'cause I made way too much and Todd and Ian have gone to some concert, right?"
"Yeah. Mahler, I think. We have the place to ourselves."

They sit down at the table opposite each other, and slowly Eddy's pulse starts to calm down a little. To be honest, he hadn't even noticed how fast it's been until now. He takes a deep breath and shovels rice into himself. 
"You have time to watch a movie after dinner?"
Brett looks up at him and something pulls over his face Eddy doesn't quite understand. But then he smiles. 
"Absolutely. Just give me an hour to finish this assignment I have to do. Some piece I have to analyse. It's due tomorrow."
"Oh, yeah. Of course."
To be honest, he half wants to offer doing it for him. But the comment from earlier chafed enough. He doesn't need more comments. 

So after dinner he wanders into his room and grimaces as his heart rate starts getting faster again. Jesus, what is it with him? He can't be away from people without falling to pieces now? He contemplates going and practising for that hour for a second, do something useful other than standing around, waiting for Brett, but he knows how sore his hand has been. 
It would be stupid. 
He wanders through his room, hanging up his bag, stacking some copies of sheet music, sighing deeply so his heart rate doesn't spike again. Wait, what did Ian say this morning? The band? It was called BTS, right? You spell that the way you say it? He sits down behind his laptop and goes to YouTube, types in the letters, clicks on the first video and leans back in his chair. 
A yellow bus, a chaotic scene, a crash, and out come the singers. To be honest, it's quite lame, and he's not sure he likes the beat, very much. But then...
Whoa. They really are beautiful. 
Wait, what? 
Since when does he think men are beautiful? 
He doesn't turn away from the screen, though. It's easy to ignore the music, really, and just watch the smooth faces, the slick dance moves. 
God, he wishes his pores would look like that. He has horrible acne, has had for years. He'll never look this beautiful. Like a model. 
The video ends and he clicks on the next one, a newer one, he thinks. The boys are standing on some sort of checker board, looking even more beautiful than in the last video. He doesn't understand a word, of course, apart from the ones they say in English. And yet he can't tear his gaze away. 
The song ends and he presses refresh. 
Ian talked this morning about how much he appreciates these guys' looks, but he's bi, so no wonder. Eddy isn't though, and still... something tightens down below and he gasps. 

A/N. For anyone who hasn't found my Xmas wish over on the one shot book: Author-san wishes you all good holidays, whatever you may celebrate, filled with warmth and love and music and light.

Love you all!