counterpoint

every anywhere

There was a time when they communicated almost solely through pictures. TwoSet had been a fledgling thing back then, and they were still separated by nine hundred twenty two kilometers of road, give or take.

They rarely talked about anything besides their little YouTube channel, if they made conversation at all. Not like back in uni, where everything under the sun had been a topic of debate or discussion, and long rambling tête-à-têtes in shared dorms and practice rooms were a daily thing of habit. It wasn't that they didn't want to talk, Brett thought; there was just too much happening on one or both ends, too many other people to talk to and too many places to be and so little time and energy for anything else that wasn't immediate and right up in their faces.

Which was why, when Eddy sent him a picture of his toes propped up on the wall above the nonexistent headboard of his bed, entirely apropos of nothing, Brett ended up pondering over it so much that he missed his bus stop, which was, y'know, embarrassing and wholly irresponsible.

After rehearsals and a stern talking-to about being late, he replied with a question mark.

?, said Eddy back, and really, it was probably better to nip this thing at the bud before they could spiral down into a sinkhole of back-and-forth question marks over the course of a few days, as it were. It happened before in Year 11.

Brett gave him a thumbs up and shoved his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, fully convinced this was a one-time anomaly. That exchange ended up being the first one out of the gate.

At first, there didn't seem to be any discernible pattern to the pictures Eddy sent his way: the street in front of his parents' house, a cat sunning itself on someone's patio, Eddy's violin (thrice), Eddy's sneakers on the musty carpet of one of their old practice rooms, Imogen and Lloyd laughing over empty coffee cups, some ferns outside the Conservatorium Theatre, the steering wheel of his mum's car. Either Eddy was practicing amateur photography, or he was amassing a collection to make memes with. But then most of the pictures were tastefully shot, all interesting angles and good lighting, etcetera, so the latter didn't seem all that plausible.

The thought came to him on a late night snack run: maybe Eddy just wanted to distract him from his homesickness by giving him a mystery to mentally tinker with. Which was — yeah. Good.

Because sometimes he did wonder if Eddy ever missed him at all, so. It was a nice notion to entertain, even while standing in line to buy pudding at two in the morning.

After a week or so of replying with emojis or ignoring the pictures entirely in favor of asking important questions like what props should I bring home for TwoSet filming or did you steal my jacket while I was there because I can't find it in my luggage, the whole thing felt horribly one-sided. It wasn't fair, given he wasn't really trying his best to reciprocate, but it still stung. Like he was smack dab in the middle of an inside joke and couldn't partake. He was always able to partake, when it came to Eddy; he always felt like he belonged.

"What does the sign mean," Eddy asked later over a phone call, the sign being the image Brett sent him yesterday of dilapidated signage near a restaurant with the best som tam in Thai Town.

"Dunno. Gotta practice, bye," Brett said and hung up. Two could play at this game.

It was, upon later reflection, an incredibly therapeutic activity. He took pictures of anything that caught his eye: a billboard for hair products, two of his orchestra fellows dabbing, the sun sinking past the curved roof of the Opera House, a gloriously blonde woman turning away with a grin. Every single image he took flew across the country to roost in Eddy's virtual inbox, and it was such a comforting thought to have curled up in the rafters of his cranium that it wasn't even funny.

He snapped a slightly blurry image of a cup of bubble tea, liquid ambrosia in his hand. Eddy responded five hours later with an image of two, because he was a competitive asshole.

A text: can you even drink all of that in one go? Brett had to ask.

was gonna save the other one for you when you visit was the reply, and fine. That was just fine.

The thing was that it was working, going through the frustrating plight of missing each other in this strange, wordless way. Brett could wake up to a picture of ice cream puddles on the sidewalk or a potted rhododendron on Belle's windowsill, and it would feel like Eddy was in the room with him, head thrown back in laughter the way he always was. Seeing the world through Eddy's eyes, and showing Eddy his own world in reciprocity.

So maybe he finally understood why Eddy started doing it. It made him feel like the nine hundred twenty two kilometers or so that separated them wasn't all that much, really.

And it apparently held true for the other end of this equation. A spectacular breakdown born from an ill-advised night of reckless drinking caused him to tell Eddy things he normally would never say except under duress: sappy things, sentimental things. The morning after, Eddy took it upon himself to go toe to toe with Brett and send paragraph upon paragraph that basically boiled down to the explanation that he was taking pictures of things that reminded him of Brett — and there were so many things to remind him, so much so that Brett was everywhere to him, in a sense. That Eddy was thinking of him despite the distance, despite his career choices, despite the confession that Eddy missed him like something essential, like violin strings or maybe his right hand. That he really fucking hoped TwoSet and their Youtube thing would take off, because then they'd be together more in the same place sooner rather than later in his mental calendar of tomorrows.

Eddy was thinking of him, missing him, waiting for his permanent homecoming. Brett was doing the same in turn. They could go months on end without seeing or speaking to each other, but it didn't matter. All the minutiae didn't matter, except for this.

ewww, Brett finally replied, taking his time to type each individual letter out on his mobile screen.

Eddy sent back a picture of himself blowing the camera a kiss, because of course he would. Brett didn't need to ask to know he understood.