Broken String

LXIII

A strange silence sinks over them as they clean themselves up and pull the quilt over them. It's a silence Eddy knows from the few times he's had really good sex, when he was quiet like this with a girl. But it's mixed with something else, mixed with his own awkwardness. His embarrassment.
He closes his eyes for a moment and feels his body. Everything still tingles and there's a relaxation he's seldom felt. Anxiety, right now, seems a million miles away.
Oh, man, that was good.
There are a million questions he wants to ask Brett. How was that for him? Did he hate doing that? Is he feeling as awkward? Would he... would he do it again, some point?
The words are stuck, though, somewhere under his cricoid, and there's no way for him to say them. Then Brett smiles and turns the light off.
"You okay?" he asks. Neutrally. Even Eddy can't hear what emotion is under it. So he tells him the truth.
"Yes. Thank you, Brett."
"No biggie."

No biggie. He's said that like four times, this evening. Does he mean it? Is he really that laid back?
To be honest, Eddy can believe it. Brett is so comfortable with himself, with his body, with his being. He's always looked up to him for that. He's so unapologetically himself. Always. If he doesn't want to do something, he doesn't do it.
So can he trust that, here?
Eddy takes a deep breath and pushes the thoughts away. Look. There will be plenty of time for thinking later. For overthinking, in fact, which seems to be his favourite hobby. He scoffs silently and turns on his left side. Brett's breaths are coming slower now, deeper, and he knows he's asleep.
He can see the outline of his face projected against the wardrobe on the wall, chiselled into the wood, courtesy of the street lamp outside. His best friend. His rock.
He still can't believe Brett did that for him.
Will he do it again? Some point?
Or did he hate it?
Surely, if he did, he'd tell him?
God, he hopes he didn't hate it.

It's getting late by now, he knows that, but sleep is stubbornly evading him, even though his limbs are languid. And he wants to go to the con again tomorrow, wants to sit in on the rehearsal. He moves his pillow a little and gently scoots over so he's closer to his best friend. His nose is against Brett's shoulder now, and he can smell the faint aroma of his aftershave on the fabric of his t shirt. It smells nice. Homey. He takes a deep breath and finally, finally he can feel the thoughts calming, the languidness he's felt overtakes him slowly, creeping up from his toes all the way to his crown.
Tomorrow's a new day to worry about things, in the end. He'll see the concert hall for the first time in ages, that space that was the stage for all those dreams. The dreams are gone, now, kept at bay by the guy who's lying next to him, breathing deeply, snoring just a tiny bit. It must be at least three A.M. Oh well. It's not like he hasn't functioned on little sleep before.
It's not like he has much to do that requires his full attention either.

His body is settling down, now. The tingles have gone and all that's left is a deep, deep relaxation. Even his mind seems to be taking it on board.
He rubs his nose against the white fabric that covers his best friend's shoulder. It's soft, and nice, and smells sweet.
That's when he finally falls asleep.