'tis the season (to love you)

CHAPTER FIVE

Brett ponders this as he drives the car down the driveway, coming to a stop just beyond the front steps to the door. When he turns the ignition off, Eddy taps his outstretched arm. "Uh, are you sure we can park here?"

That startles him into a laugh. "Yeah, dude, don't worry about it. It's not like this is a heritage site or whatever."

"Oh? Could've fooled me," Eddy smirks, looking up at the mansion with a twinkle in his eyes. Smartass.

They take turns taking their luggage out of the car, and just as they've finished dumping all their stuff onto the stones, the double doors of the mansion open with a decisive creak.

It's upon sight of Helen Lee Yang—a tiny woman with white hair and wrinkly hands and the most piercing gaze he knows—that Brett suddenly falters. The ground feels unsteady, his world buckling under the weight that this: this is real. They're actually doing this. They're actually going to fake dating each other and lie to his grandmother's face.

What the hell are you doing, Brett Yang?

He takes a nervous step backwards, earning a curious look from his best friend. "I think this isn't such a good idea."

Eddy gapes at him like he's insane, and god, maybe he is, just a little. "We're right at the fucking doorstep, and you're thinking about this now?"

Brett shakes his head, shrugs helplessly. He's only human; he's damn well entitled to a little doubt here and there. And okay, so maybe he's coming to realize that lying to his grandmother really is a bad decision—

The downward spiral of his thoughts suddenly comes to a screeching halt as Eddy loops an arm around his waist, tugs him up against his hip. "C'mon, babe," he drawls, loud enough for Helen to hear, and what the fuck. "You'll freeze to death out here if we don't get you inside soon. Let's go."

And yeah, okay, but Brett likes getting manhandled. Eddy knows this. It's fucking bribery, is what it is, but Brett can't find it in himself to complain, not when it's distracting him enough for his friend to start dragging him in Helen's direction.

(He probably won't be freezing to death anytime soon, though. Eddy's skin is a furnace, warmth radiating even through their respective layers of clothing. Weird.)

Brett's also stunned enough to stay silent for a few seconds, and then: "You dreamboat."

"Shut it." Eddy huffs, face half-buried in Brett's hair as they walk forward together, voice low and meant for his ears alone. "This is for the manuscripts, right? We made it this far. We can do this."

Ah. Right. He'd almost forgotten about that, huh.

Well, now Brett has to go through with this. He'd promised Eddy, after all. That thought pushes him to keep his feet moving, two steps in time with Eddy's one.

When they finally reach the threshold of the steps leading up to the front porch, a wave of nostalgia hits him, almost enough to send him to his knees. Brett closes his eyes, remembers the smell of freshly-cut grass and royal bluebells, the taste of anzac biscuits and almonds, the feel of weathered stone and polished wood. This is the world that had taught him to fall in love with music, guided by his grandmother's steady hand. This is the world that had nurtured his love for his violin and his craft, and with the memories that the house inspires comes the flood of emotions, warm and all-encompassing. It washes over all his fears and doubts, sweeps them away into the void.

(But the guilt—the guilt stays.)

"I'm home," Brett manages to smile, allows his grandmother to pepper his cheeks with kisses when she moves forward to greet them. Eddy lets him go, then, and he sags his weight onto the old woman without really meaning to. Brett's not taken aback by the sudden disappearance of warmth, of course not; he's only a little surprised.