We don't want to label it

XXXI

Why is he shy, coming back from the bathroom? One look at Brett, moving past him for his turn in the bathroom, not looking at him, and he knows he's not alone in this. He lets himself fall on the foot of the bed and buries his face in his hands. 
Shit. 
That was...
That was good. Too good. 
Was it too good? He gets up and walks towards the wardrobe with the mirror on it. Bright eyes, pinkish cheeks, forehead still glistening with stray beads of sweat look back at him. His hair is a mess as he runs his hand through it to try and tame it. 
Too good. 
Oh God. What does that even mean? His head feels like it's going to explode with all that's been said these last few days, all that's happened. And the one person he could talk to, that he could fully trust with it all, happens to be the only person he really can't say it to. Happens to be the person who has asked him to let him mull. 
Is he mulling about what just happened too?
He nods at the bright eyes in the mirror and backs away. 
Brett is right. He needs some distance from this. He needs to mull, to take a step back, play some Prok, edit some videos. Then he'll know what the hell to do about it all. He slips into bed and turns on his left side, away from where Brett will be, and closes his eyes. Maybe a miracle will happen and he'll fall asleep quickly so Brett will just find him like that, out like a light. 

Miracles don't happen, of course. He hears Brett come in, he hears his tiny hum, he feels the mattress move as he gets in beside him. It must be three by now but he'll be fucked if he's going to check his watch. Brett hums again and he can hear him settle in. 
It never takes Brett long to sleep. In fact, he knows it's happening because his breathing slows and becomes slightly louder. Usually it's soothing to hear, a bit like waves on a beach. But tonight anxiety lies just under the little pool of relaxation that is rapidly evaporating. He turns so he can watch Brett sleep. He's lying on his back, now, just a shock of black hair and his even features, so different without his glasses on, silhouetted against the small bit of outside light that falls through the curtains. His lips are slightly parted as he sleeps. Surrendered. 
A shining example of how Eddy should be. 
He sighs deeply and closes his eyes again but he knows already he won't be able to sleep. Too many thoughts, too many fears, too much anxiety. 
Too much. 
He gets up as quietly as he can and makes his way back to the studio. Might as well do something useful with himself. 

He's just knee deep into editing the duet they shot the other night when the door opens behind him, quietly enough so he doesn't jump. 
"Hey."
He turns around, his face already folding into apology. 
"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"
"Come to bed, Eddy."
His voice is quiet and sonorous in just that way that there's no way to say no. See? He would make a good business man. How do you say no to a voice like that? Eddy checks his watch. Four A.M.. He may be free tomorrow morning but he knows already he'll be tired all day. He gets up and smiles at him, then follows him back to the bedroom. 
It helps, somehow, knowing that Brett knows him. He's seen him, he knows him. They don't speak on the way back, because why would they? They both know not to, right now. It's too fucking late, anyway. Brett lifts the quilt and points. Like a lapdog Eddy crawls in and waits for the mattress to move again. 
"Go to sleep, Eddy."
He sighs and closes his eyes once more.