Here's the conundrum: the heart and the mouth are invariably connected, despite all good intentions to treat them as separate entities. There's a saying about that somewhere, or maybe a verse from the Good Book. Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. And god, yeah, but there's definitely a fuckload of abundance of something in his heart right now. That's not even a question.
But falling in love, it turns out, is a study in silence, for the most part. If not silence, then self-control. Brett Yang isn't particularly known for his restraint, so—it's a good time to start learning, because all the words he's got bouncing around in the pit of his throat sure as hell aren't gonna be happily received by the man he wants to give them to.
They're still trying to escape, though. Fucking traitors.
It's a test he's doing his best to pass with flying—hovering, more like—colors. He can barely manage to rein the words in, keep them locked within the crumbling jail yard of his mouth. It doesn't help either, the way Eddy's hair turns amber in the cold sunlight against the forest green, the way Eddy's muscles ripple under his skin as he wields the axe, the way he just is: a warm presence by Brett's side, unwillingly holding his heart in those hands.
Brett watches his best friend, observes and looks on as he always does. Now, it's different: rose-colored lenses, sentiments raw on his tongue, half-formed memories knocking on his heart asking to come in.
Falling in love, it turns out, just makes everything ache.
He ends up being pretty useless when they start decorating the Christmas tree, partly because he keeps getting so distracted by the DIY Brett-and-Eddy figurine, and also because Eddy keeps coming back to it even though it's already hanging on the tree, adjusting and re-adjusting it like it still needs fucking adjustments after he's tweaked it a dozen times already. It's a weird compulsion, maybe. Ridiculous. The sight still makes something in his chest quiver.
But it doesn't mean anything. Or rather: it doesn't mean anything he wants it to mean.
And so Brett forces his mouth shut, play-acts intimacy like he's on a goddamn award-winning soap opera on TV. Bring in the awards and the accolades; he is going to perform like his life depends on it. Anything to keep the words at bay.
(Words, it turns out, can build him up and tear him down in equal measure, easy peasy.)
• • •
Here's another conundrum, because he can't ever catch a fucking break, ever: he tends to jump into situations with reckless abandon whenever he's emotionally compromised. Case in point: he's got his mobile in his hand and Belle Chen's phone ringing at what must be an ungodly hour on the other side of the world before he fully realizes what he's doing.
He'd back out if he could, but then there's a litany of questioning hellos in his ear because he hasn't said anything since the call connected, and—well. Fuck.
"Hi, Belle," he says, because he is not going to play chicken with Eddy's sister. No way.
"Oh—hey, Brett, merry Christmas! How are you?" She sounds happy enough to hear from him, though he's sure he's probably intruding on her time. God, he's an idiot. "Is everything okay with Eddy over there? It's just—you never call me first, so I'm a bit concerned."
There's a question, there, in the last few syllables, because it's true: Brett never calls Belle up first. She calls him to ask after her brother and greet him on holidays and congratulate him whenever she hears about him winning competitions and such, but. He doesn't call her when he can text her.
If anything, that's probably why she sounds so suspicious, amidst the barely-concealed yawns. Now he's not quite sure whether it's the guilt or the worry that's making his stomach feel sour.
"Yeah, no, sorry," Brett mumbles into his phone. "Just, uh. Just wanted to see if I could ask for a listening ear. For something I have to say. If that's okay with you."
Well, if Belle's silence indicates anything, it's surprise and even more suspicion. But then there's just the rustling of fabric, the creak of a bedframe, the muted thump of a body falling back against a mattress. "Of course, Brett. You can talk to me about anything; you know that."
(He's only ever done this sort of confessional twice before with Belle. Both times had been about Eddy. This is the third.)
So: how do you explain your shitty fake dating plan that's been slowly unraveling because of that Realization that's been a decade in the making? The answer—in the case of Brett Yang, at least—is to devolve into a tirade that lasts for a good half hour. The elder Chen, bless her soul, doesn't say a word in judgement of his master plan, but neither does she seem very surprised. Either she's learned to expect these sorts of shenanigans from Brett, or Eddy had already told her.
Before he can decide which scenario is more terrifying, Brett's mouth does the thinking for him as it blurts out: "Are you going to say anything?"
"Sorry, it's just a lot to take in. Give me a second, okay?"
Shit. Now, he feels worse. "Okay, okay. Sorry."
Belle hums, the sound tinny as it drones through Brett's phone; it's an adequate accompaniment to the ragged flailing of his heartbeat. It's fine for a moment, here in the waiting. But then the next words come and he loses all composure he's managed to build up a few seconds ago.
"So. He must really love you, huh?"
Ah. What a fucking stellar conclusion.
"That's," his breath skitters. Air in, air out. "That's not a funny joke."
"It's not a joke—it's an observation."
Never before has he ever wanted to choke on his own spit before now. "How so?"
"Listen to yourself, Brett. Play back what you just told me." Brett opens his mouth to reply, but Belle ignores him, continuing to barrel on forward. "Everything he's done for you so far, and you don't think he loves you? How is this a joke at all?"
"You don't understand," he says, and he has to make her understand, has to show her the bigger picture so she can stop unknowingly hurting him. "Look—I'm. I'm in love with him."
Brett waits for a moment, expecting Belle to reply with shock or horror or laughter or whatever else a sibling does when faced with the unexpected revelation that their brother's best friend is head over heels for their own flesh and blood.
He waits. And waits. And waits a bit more. And when the silence continues on with an air of smug knowing, Brett has to face the disturbing fact that maybe the revelation isn't so unexpected after all.
Shit. Shit shit fuck shit.
"Please don't tell me I was that obvious. I didn't even know it yet, and I was that obvious."
"I didn't even say anything," Belle tells him, her voice all smiley. So fucking unfair. "Calm down, yeah?"
"Yeah." His feet begin to pace back and forth, carving an uneven zigzag across the fluffy carpet. "Yeah, I'm calm."
(He's really not, but Belle, thankfully, doesn't comment further on his agitation.)
"So. He loves you."
God, this again. His voice hardens, syllables sharp enough to cut. "You've gotta be kidding me."
"I'm not kidding you, Brett; you're a big boy now," Belle retorts, the bedsprings creaking as she seemingly shifts her weight. "Don't you think it's true? He wouldn't go halfway across the country to fake date just anyone; you know better than that."
"I know, Belle, I know." He does know, but he feels sick to his stomach just considering the damn concept. "But why would I even believe that?"
"You really don't think he loves you?" Brett keeps his mouth shut; Belle correctly interprets his silence as disbelief. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels like he does."
"Eddy's—he's not—he's not." Please don't let me even think of it. Just a hint of wishful thinking, and it's all over. He can't. "Please don't say that."
"You know, if he was in your shoes," Belle says, and no. No, he doesn't want to think about Eddy in his shoes, but then she keeps going: "If he was in your shoes, doing this fake dating scenario with you, he'd try to do something to get you to realize his feelings. He'd—I don't know what he'd say, but he'd say something."
And that's where that train of thought hits an impasse, really. If their positions had been reversed, if Eddy was in his place, knowing Brett loves him and wanting to put on this fake dating farce for the promised rewards and knowing Brett loves him—well. This nonsense would probably be laughable to him, wouldn't it?
He would find it hilarious. He would make a joke out of it, because that's what they've always done.
(I'd rather switch to viola than do that with you. Remember that?)
(Will he ever fucking forget?)
"Oh? Say what? I know you're in love with me, and that's why I asked you? You could never refuse me anyway, so—hah, fuck." He's distantly aware of his own words ringing in the empty room, too-loud for the four walls surrounding him, but he's already too far gone, trapped in a pit of mingling disbelief and hurt. "Yeah, right. I'd never say that out loud."
"What," Belle trails off, obviously stunned by his violent outburst. To her credit, she bounces right back into the conversation, right to the quick. "Why, because you love him?"
"Because I'm a decent human being," he mumbles, "despite all evidence to the contrary."
The eye roll he's pretty sure Belle's indulging in right now is almost audible. "Of course, but more than that, you care a whole lot. It's just the same for him, you know, hypothetical scenarios aside. Why else would he follow you there?"
"Yeah, no, it's not like that." Denial sits easy on his tongue; it tastes all too familiar. Comforting. "It's not. He's—he's not." He can't be.
"Isn't it? Isn't he?" Belle doesn't even have to raise her voice to get him to shut up. "He could be with me here right now in Rotterdam, but he's not. He could be with our parents right now on a sunny beach somewhere, but he's not. Heck, he could be anywhere in the world right now, but he's there with you," she stresses, "pretending to be your boyfriend and shivering in his jeans like he always does."
And goddamnit, but Belle's words strike a chord in him, verbal arrowheads finding soft flesh. The fight bleeds out of him, then, and he sags against the windowsill, steeling himself against the fresh onslaught of emotion slamming against the walls of his soul. Here it comes, the ache behind the bluster: "It's not the kind of love I really want."
"Not if you don't fight for it." It's offered with soft hands, this kernel of truth. "Not if you don't ask."
And there it is. Of course. Love's always a leap of faith, a jump off a cliff, waiting to hit rock or rescue. Brett finds himself clutching the edge of the table, muscles taut. Bracing for impact, in all aspects. "Is it really possible?"
There's a pause, in which he imagines the woman on the other end of the line smiling at him and his idiocy. "I think you're asking the wrong Chen sibling that question, yes?"
As usual and so not all that surprising, Brett Yang has to concede to Belle Chen's wisdom. "Yeah," he tells her, staring out unseeing into the snow.
"You're doing just fine, Brett." Funny; he doesn't think that's true at all. "Say hi to Eddy for me. Or not—he'll probably freak out if he hears us discussing him like this."
"Why, because I've apparently lost my mind?"
"Not over that, no." Again, the feeling that Belle's silently laughing at him, despite the softness of her tone. He's probably going to have to get used to that for the foreseeable future, damnit. "Take a chance on him. Who knows? You might be surprised."
She leaves him with those words ringing in his ear, long after they've moved to other subjects to wind down and she's bidden him goodbye.
You might be surprised.
Well, if she puts it that way. Brett breathes in deep, closes his eyes, and allows himself—just a little—to hope.
• • •
When he goes to find Eddy, it's with a calmer mind, the wild beast of panic tucked carefully away in the darkest innards of his skull. Screaming into his pillow and stress-eating aren't exactly the best of coping mechanisms, realistically speaking, but they did help. A bit. Somehow.
It doesn't take long before he finally finds his best friend, curled up on the window seat with his head turned towards the frosted glass pane. The door creaks as Brett enters, and yet—he could've sworn the lines of Eddy's shoulders grow stiffer. What?
"There's a storm out there," Eddy says before he can try to figure out what's happening.
"Yeah. Nana says it might take a few days before it goes away." Brett shifts his weight, left leg to right leg, as he mentally flails about in the silence. Fuck, he's never felt this awkward around his best friend before. The feeling's weird as hell. Buck up; moving on: "At least that's what the news says."
The other man still hasn't swiveled his gaze in Brett's direction; that small non-gesture alone triggers alarms in his head. "Damn it," Eddy murmurs under his breath, the expletive drawn out and stretched thin. "I wanna go home."
(Someplace distant, a storm siren is blaring.)
"What? Why?" Brett steps closer, forcing a smirk—casual, casual—onto his lips. "Are you getting cold feet or something?"
Eddy blithely ignores him. "I just wanna leave. I mean—I'd do it. Even if I have to dig out the car and drive back through the storm, I'd do it."
Worry begins to drip acid in his gut. "That's a fucking ridiculous plan, and you know it," Brett shakes his head. He takes another step closer, and then another, and then another, watching the way Eddy's spine straightens with every nearing action with an encroaching sense of dread. "What's wrong?"
"I just don't think I can spend another day here, really. Pretending and stuff." The other man half-turns his way, profile shadowed by his hair in the lowlight. "Sorry."
"What do you mean? You—you said we were fine."
"Well, we're not really fine, are we."
(It's not a question.)
He finds his hands clenching into fists, barely resisting the urge to throw himself at Eddy's feet and beg for answers. He can grovel, if he has to. "Can you please just tell me what's wrong?"
The query breaks Eddy's composure, as it were. He pivots to fully face him, a manic spark in his eyes. The sight's enough to make Brett take a wary step backward. "This, Brett." He waves his hand at the space between them, eyebrows furrowed and mouth drawn tight. "This is what's wrong, okay? I didn't think you'd lie to my face about things, but here we are, I guess."
The fuck? "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I heard you," he says, stiff as a block of ice, "talking to Belle." At that confession, Brett flinches as if he's just been struck. He can practically feel all the blood draining from his face. Shit. Shit. "I mean, really? 'I know you're in love with me so I asked you because you'd never refuse me?' Please." Eddy's shaking his head, laughter grating like nails on a chalkboard. "Exactly, right?"
And.
"Exactly?"
"Yeah," says the other man, unheeding of the way the confirmation grounds Brett's heart into the dust.
(Exactly, he says. Like—that's exactly how he'd do it, if he were in Brett's shoes: like it's nothing, like it's a comedic one-liner for people to laugh at and take unseriously. Bring in the television audience, open up the studio lights.
Exactly. Right.)
"What's there for me to deny about it?" Eddy continues, huffing a quiet laugh of contempt. "I mean, clearly, someone here likes to think he can string a guy along because he knows this guy won't ever tell him no."
A chill is beginning to seep through Brett's bones; it has nothing to do with the cool air around them. Is that what you really think of me? He blinks once, twice, opening his mouth to retort. "Don't be an asshole." Eddy looks at him pointedly, and fuck, no, that's not fair. He's throwing a verbal jab before he even realizes he's doing it. "At least I'm not the one flirting on the job."
It hits its mark. "Excuse me?"
"Don't think I didn't notice Charles hanging around your every word, man. Maybe we really should put this whole charade thing on hold, because, y'know, I'm keeping you from falling in love and shit." Daggers to the heart, these verbal blows. Brett taps his finger against his temple, smirks with a scathing sort of confidence he does not feel at all. "Perfect timing for that breakup, like we discussed, yeah?"
"Perfect timing, he says." Eddy snorts, turning his face away. "Just biding your time to release me into the wild like a long-suffering pet—I see how it is."
"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? If I'm keeping you from your one true fucking love, then I should be releasing you whenever it's convenient for you, right?" No matter how much it would hurt, right? Brett grits his teeth, jailor to the reckless words running around his tongue with criminal intent. That's what someone who loved you would do, right?
This declaration, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. Eddy whirls back around towards him, dark eyes ablaze. "And what do you know about my one true love? You said so yourself, you've never fallen in love with anyone." That jab is a low blow, and they both know it. Eddy's shoulders hunch over; Brett's shoulders straighten, stiffen up. "You—you wouldn't know the first thing about falling in love with someone you'll never have."
What the fuck. The statement hits too close to home, it's not even funny. "Well, believe me, I know a lot about that now." Because he does, doesn't he? He's gone and fallen in love with someone who's probably finding love somewhere else, in someone decidedly not-Brett. It hurts, goddamnit, but it's happening, and it's not something he can do anything about.
"Yeah, yeah, you know a lot from watching me, I know, I know." Eddy waves a hand in his direction, dismissive, and hell, but Brett doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. "I'm as obvious as the fucking sun, aren't I? Can't wait to hand me over to someone else so you can live in peace again and I can move on?"
The ache in Brett's chest seethes crimson, but he manages to pull up the patented Resting Bitch Face he's used to bullshit his way through difficult situations at the Con. Judging by the look on his best friend's face, Eddy knows exactly what he's doing. "If it helps you in any way, I don't see why not."
The other man finally, finally looks him in the eye, and it's a sucker punch to the gut. Even now, Brett's still in love with him. Even now, he still wants to wrap his arms around those shoulders, press his cheek to that chest, and never let go. It's not a feeling that goes away with anger or grief, no matter how strong, but right now, it's barely there for a second before the torrent of distress sweeps it away under the waves again.
(Hope dies a quiet death in his chest.)
"Great. Okay. Good to know you're still looking out for me, in spite of everything." Eddy takes to his feet, moving around the room and grabbing things off the shelves.
Brett's not an idiot. He's pretty sure he understands what the other man is doing, but he has to confirm: "What are you doing?"
"This is me fake-not-fake breaking up with you, yeah? Just leave me alone." Eddy's shoving jackets into a duffel bag, and the panic in Brett's blood begins to spread throughout his body with every thunderous beat of his heart. "Give me a few hours, and I'll be fine. Just—a few hours, okay?"
"No, it's not okay." Eddy doesn't pay him an inkling of attention, and he doesn't know. He doesn't know how to make him stay, and so he flings out the first thing that comes to mind. "What if Nana sees you? Can't—can't this wait until we get the manuscripts?" Are you really gonna jeopardize our mission right now? It's a long shot, but yeah, when Eddy glances at him, he knows that hadn't worked a miracle.
"Sorry to tell you this, Brett, but I'm not as stone-cold as you are. I'm no good at pretending like everything's fine and dandy, which things just aren't right now."
"Stone-cold?" Wow. Incredible. "So that's what you really think."
"You're putting words in my mouth."
"I'm not." He totally is, but who can blame him if his ears catch the vague accusation? "But thanks for implying it. I hear you loud and clear."
"You—"
"Don't give a shit." Brett shrugs his shoulders, forcing nonchalance to settle down over him like a blanket, like a shield. "Fine, go if you want to. Not like I can stop you anyway. I don't care."
Eddy shakes his head at him, disbelief outlining his features. "Proving my fucking point," he sighs, dropping the duffel bag at the foot of his bed. "I'm not really going to leave you alone out here, you bastard. Just leave me be for a bit and let me figure out how I'm going to continue this charade with you when I'm fucking sick of it."
What a decent human being, Brett thinks insidiously. He watches Eddy stride over to the door empty-handed, which should mean something, but he's tired, he's hurting, and he wants to maim one last time. One last swing of the fist, one last plunge of the knife—
"I never took you for a coward."
Eddy pauses on his way out, looking over his shoulder. "Well, maybe even after a decade, I guess you still don't know me after all."
The door closes with a dull thud that rings with finality. Brett lowers himself into the chair Eddy had just vacated and puts his head in his hands.
(He is not going to weep.)
• • •
They've rarely ever fought before, is the thing.
It's like a fever dream: one minute, he's in the room where he's been emotionally torn apart by his best friend, and then the next, he's sequestered away in the sitting room, snacking on some of the coffee kisses he baked, because hell if he's giving any to their original recipient. Eddy doesn't deserve any coffee kisses right now; fuck 'im.
He doesn't call Belle again. Doesn't tell her she was wrong about her brother. What's the point in driving that particular point home even more?
He'll be happy to be left alone to his misery, but then there's a shadow falling over the carpet, and—well. Of course Helen Lee Yang has a sixth sense about this. "I saw Edward stomping about on the snow outside. Is he alright?"
Oh god, she already knows. "We had a," Brett pauses, remembers the fallout and how much his grandmother doesn't need to know every detail of it, "disagreement."
Helen's eyebrows climb up her aged forehead. "Oh?"
"What did you do, Brett?" Charles looks over at him, a mock-horrified expression on his face. "He looked like he saw you kick a puppy. Ten puppies, even. Don't tell me you finally broke his heart or something?"
Brett snorts, doesn't mention the truth's really more the other way around, because his grandmother's standing three feet away, and he's not looking to explain any more than is necessary right now, thanks. "Very funny, Charles."
Helen clucks lowly, waving a hand towards the ginger-haired man. "Go over there and watch over Edward for me, will you?" Charles goes to stand by the window; she goes over to sit next to Brett. "Now, tell your grandmother—what happened?"
Ah, shit, maybe he does have to explain. "We just had a little fight, that's all."
("He's coming back inside," Charles calls out.)
"What did you fight about?"
"I don't know," Brett says. "It—it wasn't—I might've hurt him, and he might've hurt me, and we both said things we didn't mean." He clasps his hands together tight, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. "Or I didn't mean what I told him, at least. I'm scared of the fact that I don't really know if it's the same for him."
The old woman hums, the notes all creaky. "It is easy to hurt when we are hurt. Like an animal, you lash out when you are wounded or frightened. That is natural, but you can never, ever leave it at just that in the end."
He doesn't know if that's a jab at his own inaction and inability to kiss and make up with Eddy right now, and so he doesn't mention it. "Did you ever have disagreements with grandpapa?"
"Aiyah, all the time," Helen says, a spark in those eyes that tells Brett she knows he's trying to change the focus of their discussion. "We were both very stubborn, you know? Headstrong. Unyielding. But we never allowed that to separate us for more than a night. When we could face each other, we discussed our disagreements and came to good understandings. A lot of strong understandings, because we were honest." She looks at him, gaze tracking over his face like she's searching for something, and then smiles. "Something that you and Little Chen must be."
It's the sort of advice Brett's been half-expecting to receive, but it doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow. "I just. I'm not sure how to. How to be honest." It's hard to be, when he's perched on the edge and isn't sure someone's waiting for him at the drop. "I don't know what to do."
("Uh, Brett?" Charles' voice has taken on a worried tone.)
"You take the leap of faith," she tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. The point of contact is warm, and he finds himself leaning towards it. "That is how it always is with love."
Of course. Yeah. Of course.
Still.
"I don't know if I can—"
"Brett!"
Brett looks over to Charles, eyebrows drawn tight with irritation. "What?"
"He's got a blanket and some pillows with him." Charles points out towards the window. "He's beyond sleeping on the couch level, now—did you tell him to fuck off to the car or what?"
"Ach, language," Helen murmurs amusedly, but it's lost to the flurry of shockpanicanger that courses through his veins, a great rumble in his ears. Before he knows it, Brett's halfway across the room, face nearly squished to the glass as he watches a distant figure marching his way through the snow to the toolshed.
Deep down, Brett thinks: What the fuck is he thinking?
Deeper down, Brett thinks: He's going that far to avoid me?
Both thoughts bring a wave of fury and anguish that threatens to drag him off his feet, but he pushes the emotions down, whirling around to stalk over to the shoe rack and grab a pair of boots. There's no other choice to be had moving forward. Not for him, not when it comes to the safety of the man he loves.
"I'm going after him."
"That's a good idea, except," Charles points once again to the thick whorls of snow falling outside the window, his expression pointed. And okay, so maybe it's a foolhardy plan to just jump into an incoming snowstorm or whatever, but he's not about to leave Eddy alone.
"A little snow's nothing, Charles. That's my," he hesitates for the briefest of seconds, "boyfriend right there, and I'm going after him."
"A little snow," Charles chuckles, shaking his head, but Brett's got no time for his nonsense, moving past him and out the door.
Helen's waiting there in the hallway, a wooly scarf and a beanie outstretched in his direction. He doesn't dare meet her eyes while he's bundling himself up against the elements, but he can imagine the approving glint he might see there. "Be safe, Little Yang. Return immediately—the storm might grow stronger, and I do not want you two to be snowed in."
"That sounds bad, huh," Brett says faintly, throwing his thickest coat over his thermals. He doesn't know anything about getting snowed in, but he assumes it's not a very ideal situation to be in.
"It's super bad, man," Charles quips. "You better go fast."
The old woman hustles them both to the front door. "You must go now. I will ask Charles to find the shovel and help clear the snow." With a cheeky little leave it to me! and a jaunty salute, Charles leaves to do just that.
It seems a bit stupid now to feel shy around his grandma, but Brett doesn't look up from fiddling with the laces of his boots until Helen nudges him, fingers stroking through the hair peeking under his hat like she used to do when he'd been a child. "You know what to do. Go on."
"Yeah." He straightens up, nods firmly in her direction. "I'll bring him back, Nana."
And with that, Brett's out into the cold, bracing himself as the storm begins to wail around him. One foot in front of the other; onward, onward.
Eddy, you fucking idiot, I'm coming.