counterpoint

you next to me (next to me)

blurb: for all that brett and eddy are best friends, they don't talk about a lot of things.

→ drabble: things left unsaid

warnings: none

title from next to me by sleeping at last.

• • •

for all that brett and eddy are best friends, they don't talk about a lot of things. beyond the silly jokes and the business talk, the yelling and the laughter and the minutiae of everyday life, plenty of words remain unspoken: still waters running deep.

family is a non-topic. they don't debate over who's gotten the short end of the stick—their similarities are the flip sides of a coin, apparent in the way brett just so happens to conveniently forget his dental appointments whenever they're in brisbane, or the way eddy keeps the answer sheet of that med school exam he scored high on all framed up so he never forgets. they don't talk about the stifling love of families who care, but can never really understand: their parents had favored orthodontics and ophthalmology, architecture and engineering, and never, never the arts for their sons. they don't talk about the unnerving silences after unexpected house visits, or the phone calls that get redirected to their siblings' mobiles instead. it goes unmentioned, the weight on their shoulders, dreaming to be musicians back when it had mostly been a profession people rarely think twice of, let alone by the people they care about.

oh, but when they do talk about professions and the paths they've taken and chosen to live out, they don't mention the blood and the sweat and the tears. they don't mention the nights spent trembling on the floor of practice rooms, or concert hall restrooms pre-performance, or taxi rides home after grueling hours at the con. when they quit their orchestral jobs to pursue the dream that would become twoset violin, heart-wrenching doubt and its companions fear and sorrow are never addressed. the friends who turned them away, the fellows who scoffed, the bystanders who laughed and shook their heads in contempt: these never come up as points of discussion when they talk about the world tour and the kickstarter campaign that led them there.

out of respect and a faint sense of self-preservation, they don't talk about relationships. they don't talk about vivian—or joanne or sophie or connor or mark—and they definitely don't talk about the way eddy flinches minutely every time he hears the nielsen concerto or zenzenzense, even on opposite sides of the music spectrum as those pieces are. they don't talk about the cups of coffee or bubble tea that magically appear within arm's reach after breakups, or the ex-partner memorabilia that magically disappear from their belongings after the same fact.

they don't discuss how they exist as a unit, how they exist together. the i-love-yous exchanged on the night they raised fifty thousand dollars are never explored in detail, after. they don't discuss the sleepless hours spent sitting side by side, shoulder-to-shoulder on hotel room balconies, when the world seems darkest and yet not-lonely. they don't discuss the way they turn toward each other like sunflowers chasing the dawn, the way they reach for each other across bed sheets and coffee shop tables and performance stages like they just can't help themselves.

the whispers in the dark, mouthed against warm skin; the quiet murmurings buried under the drawl of violin strings or the tinkling of piano keys: those don't really count as talking. not in every definition of the word.

and so, in the end: they don't talk about a lot of things. so how on earth, asks ray, do you guys get along so well?

brett shrugs, pretends he isn't tracing the curve of eddy's smile with his eyes as he answers. it's nothing, really, he says, like they don't effortlessly go together like puzzle pieces, or socks, or salt and pepper shakers. i guess we just let our music speak for itself.

(and so, they make do—together. that's all they've ever needed.)