It's strange how quickly one's life can turn around in a matter of days. Hours. Minutes, seconds, the mere span of a deep breath, a singular thought.
This trip has taken him through a lifetime's worth of emotion. Maybe even more; who knows? All this excitement, the ups and downs of experiencing the cyclonic force of nature that is Brett Yang: all of this can't possibly be good for his heart. And to think he'd been so sure of himself way back at the very start when he'd first agreed to this thing.
It's the night of Nana Helen's party, and Eddy hasn't shattered apart after confessing his love to his best friend's face yet.
What a goddamn Christmas miracle.
• • •
("You're an idiot," is the first thing that comes out of Belle Chen's mouth when he calls her after the night they had spent snowed-in, and frankly, he deserves it. Just a little bit, though. He'd been hurt and his heart had been broken, okay?
"Yes, Belle, I am," Eddy sighs. No use denying what they both know to be true. He's been a real fucking idiot since the day he encountered a dangerous idea from the one man he could never say no to and didn't even try to run.
There's a heavy sort of silence from the other end of the line. And then: "Did you tell him?"
"No." It's a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn't try to throw up any excuses about it. He hasn't told Brett he loves him. The more time passes, the less it seems to matter in the grand scheme of things, when faced with the dire need for self-preservation just to get through this fucking week. "I know, I'm an idiot—you said that already."
"Good to know you're self-aware." There's a muffled sound, the tinkling of piano keys from so very far away. Without even seeing his sister in the flesh, he just knows she's shaking her head at him. "Eddy, please. How much longer will this take?"
How much longer, indeed?
He doesn't think he has much of anything left in him.)
• • •
(When Brett kisses him, he sees stars, every time.
It's the end of their performance—or rather, the performance to which Eddy knows he will compare all other past and future performances to. He's still floating in the peculiar headspace after the high of playing well when Brett suddenly moves close and kisses the last remnants of his breath away from him.
And he'd hoped—he'd hoped. There's no one asking them to cater to the crowd, to perform intimacy for the sake of their audience after the music. And there's something about the look on Brett's face—gobsmacked, stunned—that makes something in him want to scream like a banshee. Maybe this kiss is different. Maybe this kiss means something different from all the other phoney kisses they've been sharing for this charade. Maybe.
But then the mistletoe hanging innocently above them gets pointed out by Charles, and the heart in Eddy's chest sinks.
Of course. Of fucking course. Hope is a cruel, fickle thing.)
• • •
Brett catches up to him, because of course he does. He always does.
And it's a sobering concept, when all Eddy wants to do is get away.
He shakes his head violently, dispelling all thoughts other than the ever-persistent one that forces him to keep going, keep running, keep them both trapped in limbo between obvious rejection and—and unthinkable acceptance. Whatever Brett has to say to him can stand to be postponed for a later date, or maybe even never, thank you.
"Eddy!" The yell rings out across the empty expanse of the foyer, and he immediately quickens his pace. "Don't you dare walk out of the house into the fucking snow again, I swear to god."
What—oh. Right.
That would be yet another stupid idea in an entire string of stupid ideas, and Belle might bypass yelling at him over the phone to magically show up at Helen's doorstep and yell at him in person. Also, Brett might follow him into the snow and into another scenario where they'd have to spend the night together huddling for warmth, and that's probably not something he can survive again. So.
Eddy turns on his heel and marches away to careen down another hallway.
"You fuck—Eddy." The clacking of Brett's footsteps is loud in his ears, loud as the thundering of his heart caught in the pit of his throat. "Please stop running away."
If he stops running—not running away, okay, he's just trying to save himself in a non-cowardly manner, or maybe just a little cowardly, who the fuck knows anymore—Brett's going to catch him. And when Brett catches him, he's going to have to face the repercussions of his confession, none of which seem to be very appealing nor life-preserving at the moment.
And so he won't stop.
(Even as he maybe, possibly, probably wants to. He is just so fucking tired.)
Eddy hurries on forward, dodging through the sudden flock of people ambling around the common areas as he strides through the kitchen, a long hallway, the sitting room, another long hallway, and that's when he realizes, with a quick look over his shoulder, that Brett isn't following him anymore.
Maybe he's actually getting away with this for the night. And no, he isn't confused about whether he should be feeling relieved or, funnily enough, disappointed, okay, because that would just be ridiculous and—
A familiar body collides with him out of nowhere from a doorway that must be from another dimension or something, tackling him into the plastered brick as he gasps and looks up at his would-be attacker and—
Fuck.
"Got you," Brett grins at him, chest heaving with the exertion to breathe. "Don't look so shocked, man. What, you think you know this house better than me? I know all the shortcuts." He leans sideways, a steady hand against the wall, a little sweaty and exhausted and looking like the most beautiful thing Eddy's ever fucking seen in his life, and fuck it. Just—fuck it.
Got you.
Yeah. Yeah, he does, huh?
Eddy shakes his head, tries to wrangle the turbulent chaos of his mind into submission. Have you ever tried to calm a raging storm? It's impossible. An impossible thing. "What now? You're gonna break my heart again?" His voice does its best impression of a drunk belly dancer riding a unicycle, which is to say: it wobbles a whole fucking lot.
If Brett notices the unsteadiness of his words, he mercifully ignores it. "Can you please stop being such a drama queen?" It's uncomfortably apparent, the strain on Brett's face as he resists the urge to roll his eyes at him. "I'm not going to—to break your heart. That's the last thing I want." Eddy watches as his best friend visibly swallows, casting his gaze at the ground for a brief second before he looks back up, straight into Eddy's eyes. "You gotta know that."
"Yeah." Yeah, he does know that. He knows Brett. He does. But: "Doesn't mean you can't still break it even though you don't mean to."
Brett closes his eyes like he's praying for strength or patience and then holds a hand out in Eddy's direction. "C'mon. Hear me out, one more time. Please? I know I asked you the same thing that night in the shed, but at least give me a chance to explain myself before you go running off for the fucking hills again."
Well. Fine. When he puts it that way.
Eddy nods begrudgingly, opting to say nothing more lest he betrays himself again, the way his tongue had so easily let slip the fact that he loves his best friend just a few minutes ago. Brett beckons him forward with a crook of his finger, and together, they start walking. Down the hall, up the stairs, through the left door on the landing. He squints in the lowlight as they enter, his brain registering the sight of rows and rows of bookshelves and old velvety armchairs with no small hint of confusion.
He's never been here in this particular room before, and huh. That little fact scares him more than it probably should.
"Look. C'mere, come closer. No—stop looking at me like that, okay, y'know I don't fucking bite." Taking a few steps forward as requested, Eddy frowns as Brett fishes out a key from his pocket and kneels at the foot of a giant wooden chest with elaborate designs carved onto its surface. He fiddles with the lock, opens the chest with a loud creak, and drags out something dark and sleek and—
Oh, hold on. It's a violin case.
When the case is opened and Eddy catches his first glimpse of the instrument lying inside, it's like time stands still for a moment. Brett can't quite seem to make proper eye contact with him, his gaze hovering slightly above the bridge of Eddy's nose. "This is the thing I came here to Lamerra for. Aside from the manuscripts, I mean."
And wait. Wait.
He can't stop himself from reaching out, not for something like this: a Stradivarius violin, right then and there in Brett's grasp like a mirage in the middle of the desert. It can't be real, surely? But no, that theory is thoroughly disproven when he lays a gentle hand on it. Yeah, there's the stiffening of the middle section. He peers at the label, and oh god, but those last three digits that make up the year it was made are definitely handwritten. Of course, his inexperience can't really be counted on here, but it really does look like it's fucking real. Oh god.
Okay, but also, the excellent workmanship underneath his fingertips is not about to distract him from the situation at hand. Eddy releases his hold on the violin and looks up at Brett, inclining his head to urge Brett to continue talking.
"Nana offered me the manuscripts, but she offered me her Strad too. She wanted to give it to me if I came here with you in tow, and—and I didn't tell you. I didn't tell you, and I lied to you. And to think that I—I was about to be a selfish, lying bastard and run off with it the second you looked away," Brett stops, his lips thinning for a brief moment before he continues. "But then. Oh, but then. Then, I saw the light or some fucking glitch in the matrix, and then I realized: this thing?" He looks down at the instrument in his hands and chuckles weakly. "It doesn't even come close to being what I really want." A pause. "Who I really want."
Eddy blinks once, twice, as he tries to remember how to make his lungs work normally again, because they don't seem like they're interested in taking in enough air anymore.
"I told you, didn't I? Someone who's only ever been the only one. Who the fuck else could I have been talking about?" Brett gives him a once-over from head to toe. "Last I checked, there's only one of you. Just you."
And just like that, he sees.
Someone who's only ever been the only one. Eddy casts his attention back through the years they've spent together, sees in his mind's eye the colorful kaleidoscope of faces that come and go through their shared lives. And in the midst of it all, always, always, he is standing beside Brett, walking in his wake, accompanying him through every step of the long, long journey life has laid out before them. Years and years of best friends and together and us, but also the two of us and just us and—
Just us. Just you.
Oh.
Oh.
"I'm sorry it took this long for me to realize. I'm a real piss-weak idiot when it comes to you. But I'm tired of fighting, tired of being a coward. I don't want to have you close without you knowing how I feel. So—so I just—what I mean to say is," Brett stops, takes a deep breath. Takes all the air out of Eddy's lungs in the process. "What I mean to say is that—I'm a moron, and I'm sorry. I love you." Matter-of-fact. No frills. Spoken like the absolute truth. "I wasn't lying about that either."
I love you. And I'm sorry—I should tell you that more often.
He says he isn't lying about it.
(Oh god.)
The word comes unbidden out of his mouth. "No."
Brett raises an eyebrow. "I love you, Eddy."
"Stop it."
"Why? I love you. I want to say it, because I mean it, fucker." And there it is, peeking through the clouds: the sunshine grin Eddy so loves. Seeing that, of all things, finally settles the rabid creature in him, finally makes him believe that this—this is fucking real. It's fucking real. "I love you like nothing else. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me, you moron."
"You're the moron here, you said so yourself," Eddy says, but he's feeling dangerously close to crying actual tears, so maybe he's the real moron here. Fucking hell.
Oh, who even gives a shit anymore. He can cry as much as he wants to, goddamnit; Brett loves him. Brett loves him.
It's outrageously tender, the way Brett's fingers swipe at the few tears that do escape, wet streaks disappearing under his touch. It's mildly pitiful, the way his heart wants to try and do its utmost at swanning out of his ribcage in an attempt to tumble into Brett's own. Eddy decides he doesn't care at all.
A few moments pass before he manages to collect himself enough for Brett to move away, but only just. "Hey. Merry Christmas, Eddy. My gift to you, by the way, no need to thank me."
"What?" Eddy looks down at the violin case Brett had unceremoniously dropped into his unsuspecting arms, and wait, no, absolutely not. "I—Brett, I can't take this."
Brett's eyebrows furrow, scrunching up on his forehead. "Sure you can. I want you to have it."
What the fuck. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"We can share it if you want, Eddy. In fact, I insist we share it."
Oh god, and there's his enterprising best friend, finally making an appearance again. "That's not it," Eddy replies, shaking his head as he laughs. "I'm saying no because you've already given me a gift."
Here, Brett tilts his head, the question clear as day on his face: what the fuck are you talking about? "Huh?"
(Fuck it, he can also be incredibly cheesy if he wants to be, goddamnit; Brett loves him. Brett loves him, and that thought sure as hell isn't going to feel old any time soon.)
"You. You're the best gift I could've ever gotten." If he mentions the blush that dusts Brett's cheeks a little red, he'll just deny the phenomenon ever happened, so Eddy says nothing of it. He opts to place the violin case down—very gently, mind—and turn back to face the other man. "This is the best Christmas of my life, I'm calling it now."
"You fucking sap."
"Had to get you back for the greatest scare of my life, throwing Nana's Strad into my arms like that."
Brett snorts at him. "You call that throwing? I'll show you throwing." Without warning, he jumps into Eddy's arms, looping an arm around his shoulder as they finally, finally do this fucking thing for real.
The kiss tastes like chocolate and mint. And of course, no faking or charades or any mistletoe involved this time. Fuck you, parasitic plant of festivity.
Eddy doesn't immediately open his eyes in the aftermath, overwhelmed as he is. It doesn't feel real, but it is. It's unbelievable. Incredible. Best day of his life thus far, even with the whole issue about heartbreak beforehand.
"So?" He opens his eyes, raises his eyebrows at the sudden question Brett's posing. "Tell me the truth."
"About what?"
"Am I a fantastic kisser?" Brett's mouth curves into a smirk. "Yes or yes?"
(The first and foremost thing one needs to know about Eddy Chen: he's too kind, too willing to please for his own good that it's probably unhealthy.)
"Yes," Eddy says, relishing the way Brett's face lights up with an absurd amount of unholy glee, "but I think I need more research to generate a definitive conclusion."
(Here's the second thing one needs to know about Eddy Chen: he's maybe kinda a little bit in love with his best friend. Has been for years now. A whole decade, even.)
"Oh?" Brett's so close now, he can almost taste the crescent shape of his grin. "Well, y'know what they say, practice makes perfect."
"So we need to practice," Eddy begins, but the rest of the words are already lost in the kiss that follows: warm and soft and content.
• • •
Here's the thing, the first and foremost thing one needs to know about Brett Yang and Eddy Chen: despite all efforts to the contrary, they can be real idiots at times.
Here's the second thing one needs to know about Brett Yang and Eddy Chen: they love each other, and frankly? That more than compensates for everything else.