Words hurt—they can slice through someone like a sword. They can sap the sunlight out of someone's life, can abruptly turn vibrance into greyscale.
Brett knew that previously, of course, but he knows that perfectly well by now—it's etched into his brain like the one time he came in with the wrong pitch in his Mozart concerto performance a while back.
Except, the concept hasn't been embedded in his knowledge because he himself was a victim to heartbreaking words—his best friend was the victim to heartbreaking words Brett himself had given voice to.
So Brett probably should not have said "it didn't mean anything" and "we're just friends."
He lied to convince Ray, and himself, for that matter, but his lie broke Eddy's heart.
He hadn't meant to break his best friend's heart, especially since Brett himself feels the same now.
Right after the words had tumbled out of his mouth, he promptly wanted to take them back—an unbearable silence followed, a searing medley of Ray's skepticalness, Eddy's pain, and Brett's own regret.
But nothing sharpened the blade of regret that slashed through him more than one thing—when he looked at Eddy and saw the shining tears that threatened to spill from those beautiful eyes.
Beautiful—when they weren't strangled by anguish. He'd have softened looking at them, if they had their regular air of adorable cheerfulness. But then, at the sight, Brett wanted to cry, too. And it was all his fault.
At that moment, Brett desperately wanted Eddy to look up at him; he wanted to communicate with his eyes what he couldn't say with Ray there. He wanted to give the same comfort a hug of solace has that he couldn't give with Ray there.
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, Eddy. I didn't mean what I said. In all honesty, I love you. I'm sorry.
I love you, I love you, I love you. Eddy, please, look up.
But to Brett's dismay, Eddy didn't look up. Didn't want to look up. To be fair, what was he expecting? Was he seriously waiting for Eddy to look up, after he broke his heart?
Plus, he shouldn't have said that, since, well, it certainly meant everything.
And since, well, he knows they're both hopelessly in love with eachother.
Hopelessly in love—hopelessly, because they can never be together for real.
God, he's probably overthinking things, but Brett would confess to Eddy if it wouldn't ruin their lives—because what if they get together and it somehow leaks beyond their walls, and what if that makes a shipwreck of their lives, a shipwreck of everything they've built together, of not only Twoset, but with their bond?
Looking at the way personal information about other famous people has been easily leaked in the past, Brett knew the same could very well happen to them, too. And he doesn't want to think about how much of an absolute Shostakovich symphony that would be. A falling-apart orchestra with no concertmaster to take charge.
Though, it's a strange phenomenon; ever since he realized he'd fallen in love with Eddy, all of Eddy's actions, his words, they were all accented in his head at fortissimo, and Brett sees it all clearer; like when Eddy uploaded a video titled "If Paganini Wrote All I Want For Christmas Is You" that he hadn't noticed before. (God, Eddy's prowess on the violin that he refuses to admit to—why Eddy always says he isn't talented enough, Brett has no clue.)
But still—Eddy Chen, you absolute sap.
Even with the whole personal life thing out of the way, hence, Brett would confess to Eddy if he knew how to; how do people do it? Does he just blurt "I love you" and pull him down for a kiss? Does he ask him out? Does he give him an entire speech about his feelings before the three words?
Sure, he's overthinking, and sure, he's definitely more extroverted than Eddy, but Brett just doesn't think he has the guts to say it first.
Besides, is he even sure Eddy loves him in that way? Or, if he confessed, would his heart just be stamped flat beneath a pulverizing fist?
Unbelievable, Yang, Brett thinks to himself. You have the guts to pull Eddy back for him to sleep in your embrace, but you don't think you can say three words? Not to mention you're now second-guessing yourself after a looong while of knowing Eddy's in love with you?
But that's another factor of love, isn't it? It's beautiful but destroying, with tons of confusion, overthinking, and second-guessing oneself.
That's love, I guess.
But Brett can't help but admit, he couldn't help but feel aflutter as Eddy's hands found his waist—it felt so much more different than the hug they shared on Christmas, when Eddy's arms were wrapped around his waist. No, this was on a much deeper level, so beautifully different.
He couldn't help but feel aflutter as Eddy moved closer, couldn't help his anticipation for what would come next, once the already small distance between them closed.
Because what would've happened, had Ray not walked in at that exact second, had Eddy just moved just a tiny bit closer, had Eddy's lips touched his?
That would've changed everything.
Because Eddy loves him, and he loves Eddy.
♡ ♡ ♡
Eddy's heart is still stubborn, unyielding, unattached a great distance from his brain. Because that's love, right?
So—well. He's still in love with him. With someone he'll, for sure now, never have.
God, why does he still love him? Does he still freaking think he has a chance, even after Brett brought the blade down onto Eddy's strings of love that tied him to the other, tied in a way completely against everything the universe has scrawled in the stars above?
He has to stop—this is getting in the way of their friendship. And so, every day since, he's been on his knees begging to his own heart, tears obscuring vision and drying on cheeks.
Stop. This is hurting both of us. This can't go on anymore. Just—stop. Please. Stop.
Love is a war—very easy to begin but hard to stop. A war that his heart refuses to admit defeat to, even after clear evidence that every corner of the universe is poised against it. And so, he's still in love with him.
Didn't you freaking hear him? It didn't mean anything. We're just friends. He'll never look at me the way I want him to. That's the truth I've always had to face in the end.
♡ ♡ ♡
"Maybe we should talk about it after all."
It's Brett who finally decides to give voice to this taboo topic that's leaving them both picking absently at their dinner plates, as the classic awkward silence weighs down the air on their shoulders.
"I know you know, Eddy. We both know we nearly kissed a few days ago."
Oh, freaking hell. It was inevitable—this was bound to come up at some point, wasn't it?
For the first time since they sat down, Eddy timidly glances up and meets Brett's gaze. "I know, Brett, I know."
"You know, hey?" Brett pushes forth unyieldingly. "We both know we're just friends but we nearly did anyways?"
And Brett's pulled yet another "we're just friends" card. How many of those does he have in his hand? "Look, I don't know how that happened. I was trying to stop you from tickling me and then—well—"
Brett glares, a look that Eddy never thought he'd be on the receiving end of. "And now we're having the time of our lives arguing here because of unresolved tension on our shoulders?"
"Goddammit, Brett, if you're so afraid to say the truth directly, then I'll say it," Eddy says. He takes off his glasses in feigned exasperation, but really, he can't say any of this and have a goddamn staring contest with Brett. "We're not just friends and you freaking know it. We both know it."
And well, that's another truth. They'll never be together, and they're not just friends—who said the two truths can't coexist?
And the silence that follows his words, follows the truth—it's changing something. It definitely is changing something, if not it had already changed. It prompts Eddy to push his glasses back on and look up again.
And he knows, there's something inscrutable going on behind those gorgeous eyes, something the silence has power over, something the silence is choosing to change yet again. God, if only he knew what.
Brett laughs softly, but it's not a genuine one, nor is it one of happiness. There's—Eddy dares say—laces of tiredness, even sarcasm, outlining it? "I think we've both known that for a long time now, haven't we?"
"I mean, best friends don't react to hugs the way I did, do they?" Eddy's voice is slowly forming a sharp edge; the little section of his brain that rarely comes into action, the section jam-packed with unbridled, unreasonable rage, is taking over. And that's dangerous. "They don't struggle to make eye contact with them, do they?"
He's greeted with a pin-drop silence from Brett's end, a silence that lasts for eons before Brett speaks.
"I guess—they don't, but I—but..."
Even more silence as Brett's sentence quivers and dies away. God, what did he even overreact for? He knows Brett hates seeing him angry; although it rarely ever happens, it always hurts something within Brett. Get a grip, Eddy Chen.
"I don't want to argue with you, Eddy," Brett says finally, voice almost strangled. "I want to talk this through with you. Because this whole ordeal is getting in the way of us."
Eddy has to say, he's right. He really is right. Eddy gets up and stalks over to the other side of the table. He bends down and throws his arms around Brett's neck, face buried in his shoulder.
"I'm sorry for losing myself there, Brett." God, even he himself can't tell if he means when he raised his voice just now, or when he'd almost kissed Brett earlier then. "This whole thing is so goddamn stupid."
He feels the gentle weight of arms wrapping around him in turn. "I forgive you, Eddy." Brett chuckles, for real this time. "And yeah, this is pretty stupid, no kidding." And straight back to serious mode, "but I don't think we can just forget that ever happened, can we?"
"I think I've forgotten enough concerto movements already, thanks." Eddy grins, pulling back and walking over to the couch. "But I guess—we'll just have to deal with it, hey?"
"Yeah." Another infamous glint of cheekiness in Brett's eyes and smile uncloaks itself. "And you don't have to apologize. It's my fault for being so damn gorgeous." He wiggles his eyebrows. "You couldn't resist me, hey?"
Brett freaking Yang—in a feeble attempt to hide the growing flush on his face, Eddy grabs the nearest couch cushion and hurls it at Brett, who's scrambling away whilst howling with unrestrained laugher, the sweet melody drifting in the now-blithe atmosphere.
They'll never be together in the way Eddy wants them to be, but they have this. And this is better than anything else.
But even still—
We're not just friends and you freaking know it. We both know it.
I think we've both known that for a long time now, haven't we?
Does that mean nothing, like their almost-kiss, something Eddy's just overthinking—
Or does it mean everything, like their almost-kiss, a love so obvious yet so ignored?