Eddy's phone is exploding, shaking wild like an earthquake. It's never really done that before, aside from maybe holidays and emergencies, and he's kinda concerned.
"Oh, don't mind it," Brett tells him from behind the stack of biscuits he's rummaging through, calm as anything even when discussing his best friend's possible humiliation at the hands of the general public. Eddy frowns at the screen for a moment before pocketing the mobile, goes back to studying the rows of potato chips in front of him, if only to take his mind off the issue at hand. So: Brett had suggested a photo together for his grandmother's sake, and then had promptly scared the living daylights out of Eddy by yanking him into a sorta-kiss on the cheek, but not really, because he had been an unknowing participant for it? Anyway.
(There's the niggling feeling that maybe Brett had felt the urge to do such a thing exactly because he might've wanted to in the first place, and wait, no, Eddy's not going to go there. There lies the way to madness.)
Thank god Brett's remembered to fiddle with the privacy settings of the post so only family can see it. If that photo goes public—well. He doesn't even want to think about the repercussions. They're enough to give him nightmares.
Belle's gonna kill him, for starters. She's the type to smack a person while laughing, after all, and his sister's got a mean left hook.
"Hey, you look like you just watched a small animal get run over." Brett nudges his shoulder, brings him back to the present. He realizes he's been standing there frozen for a good thirty seconds. Shit. "What's wrong? Did the Pringles do anything to you?"
"Hilarious," he shakes his head, reaching forward to take the aforementioned chips in hand. "All the Pringles has ever done to me is make me hungry. So I'm taking them."
Brett snorts. "I like your conquering spirit, hey? I'll get me some of that too." He watches as the shorter man takes a few more Pringles cans and then waltzes over to the cash register. Ridiculous, that man, truly. It's disgusting, how adorable he is.
It's almost domestic to engage in such a mundane thing together, but Eddy finds himself enjoying every second of this road trip so far, even as he is also simultaneously teetering on the brink of an abyss. Everything he does feels like a keg of gunpowder about to explode, hyper-focused and hyper-sensitive—the phantom pressure of Brett's gaze on him pressing down with the weight of a fourteen wheeler truck. Fuck, that's dramatic, but he doesn't really care; it's the damned truth.
He's afraid that at some point, Brett will take one good look at him and just know.
"Hey slowpoke, you coming or what?"
It's a dilemma for later. Eddy steps away from the store shelves and tells himself he's enjoying this for the millionth time. He's not exactly sure he's succeeding so far, but it's the thought that counts.
• • •
They stop by a cheap motel, check into a room with twin beds that barely manage to fit Eddy's tall frame in them. He's about to make a joke about how Brett's height fits the bed quite nicely, but one look at his friend's raised eyebrows, and it's enough to send him into peals of laughter instead.
Truth be told, he'd been a little wary of the idea of sharing a room during this whole fake dating thing, let alone the possibility of there being only one bed when they get to Nana Helen's home. It's what happens in all the romance stories, not that Eddy's ever going to admit to reading one. Of course not. He's only—being cautious. Genre-savvy. Something like that.
"Ah, god, I'm so tired," Brett moans, falling down onto the blankets hard enough to rattle the bed frame, and it's a testament to Eddy's frazzled state that he jolts at the sound, mind immediately flinging itself into the gutter and all the things that sort of noise would normally entail. Goddamnit.
"Thank you for your service," his mouth chatters away for him, and thank the heavens making banter involves muscle memory by now, or he'd be in a lot of trouble. He should be trying his best to make everything feel normal, not the other way around. Brett's going to notice if he does otherwise, and that is not good, no siree. Eddy sits himself down on the covers of his own bunk and stares at the floor. "I should've switched places with you from time to time, sorry—"
A laugh emerges from the other bed. "Nah, it's fine. Anything for you, bro. Thanks for coming with me." The declaration hits somewhere deep in Eddy's chest: kitchen knife to butter. It's all he can do to keep a straight face. "Probably gonna be indebted to you for life."
"Hey, that's what best friends do," Eddy replies, because he's such a good best friend.
• • •
They're getting ready for bed when the brilliant idea pops up in Eddy's head. Brilliant, being the relative term. His sister would've called it stupid, but whatever, his sister isn't here.
"Don't you want to," the words curl on his tongue like sour milk, "I dunno—practice?"
Brett raises an eyebrow. "Practice?"
"Y'know. What all the couples always do." What all the real couples always do, and wow, keep hurting yourself, Edward.
His question is met with thoughtful silence, and then: "Oh, you mean kissing? Or the other thing with the horizontal limbo—"
"No thanks," Eddy immediately blurts out, and for some blessed reason, he manages not to sound like a man who's thought about that very thing a million times over. He sounds quite the opposite, in fact: dismissive, indifferent, cool. Yes, that's good; anything but Brett finding out he means otherwise. "I'd rather switch to viola than do that with you."
Brett winces dramatically, placing a hand over his heart in such a flamboyant way, Eddy can tell he doesn't really take offense. "Ouch, man. That really hurt me. Like, really deep down."
"You'll get over it." He rolls his eyes, waves a hand in his friend's direction. "I meant kissing, mate. Won't Nana notice if we kiss like we don't know how to?"
"Hey! I'll have you know that I'm a fantastic kisser, just saying," Brett smirks, a glint of shimmering club lights in his dark gaze, and no, Eddy doesn't really doubt that at all. Even now, he remembers the dazed expressions, the flushed cheeks, the ravenous looks. Brett Yang is definitely a fantastic kisser and he's got a long line of admirers to show for it. That doesn't in any way relate to the acidic feeling in his gut whenever Eddy thinks about it, not really.
Oh, who is he kidding? He's jealous as fuck.
Blissfully oblivious to Eddy's inner plight, Brett waltzes over to the bathroom, his voice echoing across the white floor tiles. "It'll be fine! We'll know how to act it out, and I'm a master at these things, y'know that. Everyone knows that."
And god, but the way Brett says this, all suave confidence, makes something in Eddy snap.
"Oh? Maybe you're just scared you won't live up to your reputation where I'm concerned," he smirks, a confrontational note in his tone that he's sure Brett doesn't miss—he never really can resist a challenge when it's right in front of him. True enough, his friend pokes his head out the bathroom door, a glint in his eyes. Eddy's mouth continues to rattle out words unwittingly as the other man stalks forward in his direction. "Don't you think that I—"
There's no forewarning. In one swift motion, Brett leans down and kisses him, all perfunctory and quick. Eddy doesn't even have the opportunity to relish the feel of chapped lips against his and the smell of peppermint mouthwash before Brett's already moving away, cool as a fucking cucumber, what the hell. It takes a considerable amount of willpower to school his expression to anything but shell-shocked astonishment.
When Eddy's gaze finally flickers up to catch his best friend's own, Brett bats his eyelashes at him, something like victory in the curve of his mouth. "Yeah? Not really worried."
It feels like he's lost something, here. Eddy clears his throat and buries his head under the blankets, his lips buzzing with awareness.
Fuck it all.