When Brett opens his eyes to a new day, it's to a headache and an empty bed.
Well, okay, so maybe he doesn't realize he's alone yet, not for a good long while. He hasn't played around in the snow nor has he done any sort of strenuous activity for some time, and now, his body's complaining at every twitch of his muscles, every flex of his limbs. Brett twists and turns on the bed for a moment, tangling himself in the blankets, when he realizes the other side of the pillow wall is empty.
Eddy isn't in the room. Ignoring the sinking feeling that's made a home in his stomach, he gets up and goes in search of him.
The halls are silent, his steps echoing across the wooden floor as he makes his way through the house, down the stairs and across the foyer. He waves at his grandmother through the window as he passes by, the old woman tending to the flowerbed she's taken a claim over as her personal project. He catches a glimpse of ginger hair turning a corner further ahead. Probably Charles, or something.
When Brett arrives at the kitchen, Eddy's rummaging through the cupboards, hair dishevelled and his pajama bottoms tugging low around his hips before he wordlessly pulls them back up. The light hits the glass window just right, and suddenly he's wreathed in sunshine: a sleepy angel made luminous.
Thud, thud, goes his heartbeat, and wait. Thud, thud?
He pushes away the sudden shyness that lingers at the back of his mind, begins moving quietly across the kitchen tiles, trying not to make a noise as he approaches.
Brett watches the other man replace the lid on the box of sugar as he takes a sip from his mug, and maybe he's still got a foot in the dream world, because the first thing that comes out of his mouth is: "You don't take sugar in your coffee."
Eddy finally glances over towards him. There's a faint smile on his face as he produces another cup of coffee from behind the cookie jars. "Nah." He strides over to where Brett is perched against the breakfast counter, sliding the warm cup into his eager, waiting hands. "That's 'cause this is for you." A smirk so pronounced, it's almost audible. "Good morning."
"Good fucking morning indeed," Brett sighs, his words muffled as he lifts the mug to his lips. It's made just the way he likes it: three sugars, a splash of milk. He can't remember ever having taught Eddy the exact way to make his favorite brew, but somehow, he's got it down pat. Incredible. "God, I could kiss you." He pauses, chuckles at the strange word choice he's used. "Y'know what I mean."
"Well, maybe I don't."
Brett blinks at him owlishly, running the spoken words through his head again, before Eddy turns away and takes a sip into his coffee cup. Whatever the fuck that means.
"Anyway," he draws out the word, taking a moment to dispel the confusion clouding his brain before he continues, "I didn't think you'd go downstairs without me."
"Needed my coffee fix. Nana told me to make myself at home, so," Eddy trails off, gesturing half-heartedly at the kitchen counter. It's sparkling clean, not a single utensil or condiment out of place. "I figured I knew how to use the coffee maker, so why not?"
"Yeah, right. You wouldn't be this prim and proper back at home with all your shit lying around and you don't even clean up your ramen packets!" Brett doesn't even think twice about naming their shared dorm home; it doesn't occur to him that Eddy might not be thinking the same thing until he's already spoken the words. Before he feels self-conscious about it, though, he places a hand to his forehead and sighs dramatically. "God, if only you'd do the same back at the con. A man can dream."
"Asshole," Eddy punches his shoulder lightly, and in that moment, drinking coffee under the early morning sunshine, Brett feels beatific.
• • •
"I think I would like us to make homemade decorations this year," Helen explains over breakfast, spreading jam over her toast with a knife. Brett knows for a fact that she knows how to wield it in other non-utensil scenarios. "Brighten up the house, yes?"
"Yes, grandmamma." He swallows down a spoonful of soup and then nudges his friend's elbow. "Want me and Eddy to cut down a tree or something?"
"There is no need. We have plastic one in attic." She grins serenely. "Maybe wreaths and other decors! We paint balls and figurines and hang them up on the tree."
Beside him, Eddy leans forward, an easy grin on his mouth. "Arts and crafts, Nana? You sure you'll be okay with what might be really horrible products?"
"Ach, that just makes it more heartfelt!"
"I guess," Brett laughs. "Okay, we'll go out into the town to buy some materials."
They take the car out into Lamerra proper to help carry their shopping bags, and in no time at all, they've assembled a whole pile of things for his grandmother's crusade for artsy, DIY christmas decor.
It's a domestic errand, somehow. Brett might've had plenty of exes and he thinks he's been more or less a fantastic boyfriend to each and every one of them, but shopping for art materials and cutting down leaves from the trees outdoors isn't something he's done with anyone before Eddy, really. And maybe he realizes somewhere between the third and fourth stores they visit that clubs and fancy restaurants and movie theaters have nothing on small-town craft shops.
He looks up from his perusal of the christmas balls to see Eddy chatting with some starry-eyed shop attendant, her body leaning ever so slightly into the man's orbit, and. Well. There's an inexplicable flash of white-hot envy Brett can't quite explain, can't quite pinpoint where it's coming from.
Still: he kinda wants to push the girl into a puddle. How fucking elementary of him. Brett shoves his hands down his pockets and pointedly moves down another aisle without waiting for his friend to follow.
(The feeling only dissipates when they get back to the mansion, Eddy's laughter ringing in his ears and the knowledge that he's causing that joy a burning ember in his chest.)
• • •
It had only been a matter of time before things came to a head. He's just never prepared for the possibility that it could be so soon. He had been so focused on twisting leaves into a wreath with pliers that he absolutely misses the spark of mischief that alights in his grandmother's gaze.
(That'll teach him to pay attention to his surroundings more, where Helen Yang is considered.)
"You know," the old lady begins in a voice that just screams trouble, "I have not seen you two kiss at all, Little Yang."
Brett freezes, almost cutting his fingers on the sharp edge of his clipping shears. Somewhere behind him, the crackling of bubble wrap stops, and oh shit. He ducks his head, tucks his shoulders in tighter as he resumes his work—maybe if he ignores the problem, it'll go away. Sadly, horrifyingly enough, she continues speaking.
"There is nothing wrong with doing that here, dearie. Or are you just shy your little old granny will see?" She flaps her hands at them delicately, and Brett recognizes the motion as clear as day: get on with it, now, won't you?
He'd scream out an obscenity if he could. Seeing as he's got nowhere else to go, all he can do is mentally panic. "I—well, I kinda—it's just really weird doing it with you around, grandmamma."
"Oh please. I know you are utterly shameless with your previous partners in the Facebook." Brett's looking attentively now, and he definitely does not miss the way Helen's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Is there something wrong with kissing Eddy, then?"
"N-no, but I—I just," he flails around in half-formed sentences for a moment when Eddy suddenly reaches out for him, a gentle touch at his elbow. Brett peers at his face, and oh no, he does not like the look on his face.
"Would it really be so bad, doing it in front of Nana?" The query is soft, almost inquisitive, and if it weren't for the fact that Brett knows they're just playing pretend, he might think Eddy wants to kiss him. Which, quite frankly, isn't something that'll ever happen, so. This is good; he's helping him salvage this situation.
"Yeah, okay, maybe not so bad," he rattles out in response, breathing deeply as he turns his body to fully face his friend. God, are his hands sweating? His hands are sweating, aren't they—fuck. This isn't supposed to be happening. And when he glances up again—
Eddy's looking at him with something like hunger in his eyes, and god, oh god—
Cheeks flush, eyes dilated, gaze dark: Brett's never thought Eddy would be such a good actor. It's—fuck it all, but it's a damned good look on the other man.
Eddy leans in, and Brett flinches when he murmurs low into his ear. "Lie back and think of Tchaikovsky," he whispers, and that's just Eddy enough to be funny that he finds himself laughing before their lips meet.
And.
("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."
"Oh? Maybe you're just scared you won't live up to your reputation where I'm concerned."
"Yeah? Not really worried.")
(He is beyond fucking worried right now.)
His glasses are in the way. Brett mentally frets about them until Eddy tilts his head just so, and—shit. He has no right to be this good, with the way he takes the kiss deeper, the new angle leaving Brett weak in the knees.
His best friend kisses like it's the end of the world: desperate, devouring, devoted. Brett's mind might just be imagining the tinge of longing he thinks he can taste with every slide of tongue against tongue, but really, can anyone blame him for thinking stupid things? It's a kiss that can make anyone lose their goddamn mind.
Eddy's hands are shaking where they're cupping his cheek, the crook of his neck, fingers trembling like they aren't sure of their welcome—aren't sure that they can be right there touching him at all.
(He can't read too much into this. He can't.)
Eddy licks into his mouth, sensual and slow, and god help him, but a moan spills out of his throat like it just can't help itself. They're chest to heaving chest, skin to heated skin, and—
"Children, please," suddenly comes from behind Eddy's shoulder, and oh fuck, "would you like to go to bed now?"
The way they separate is almost violent, wrenching away from each other's touch and almost stumbling into stray tools and pine branches. It doesn't look at all natural or anything like what two people in a romantic relationship would do, and Brett prays to every deity that'll listen that his grandmother will think it's because they're just shy about PDA.
That kiss hadn't been anything at all like what they've practiced before coming here.
"S-sorry grandmamma," he finally manages to stutter out, and god, but his voice trembles around the syllables, his tongue suddenly as slippery as a newborn snail. Or something. Fuck, he can't even think straight right now. Where's the calm and collected Brett from that night at the motel, he wonders. That Brett needs to make a return right fucking now. "We didn't mean to give you a show."
"Aiyah, it is all very good. Do not worry." Helen nods sagely, rubbing her chin as she looks between the two men with a smile that can rival the Cheshire Cat's grin. Brett doesn't dare look at Eddy right now, turning his back on his best friend in a desperate attempt to catch his bearings. "Brings me back to my childhood, you know. Your grandfather was a giant—"
"I do not need to hear any of that, please." Brett plugs his fingers into his ears; the discomfort simmering in his gut helps make his disgusted grin appear more genuine. He picks up the clipping shears again, willing the burn at the tips of his ears to subside. "Spare Eddy, at least! He doesn't need to get traumatized by your lurid stories."
It takes another moment or two, but Eddy finally jumps back into the conversation, his voice fairly controlled. "Yeah, I think I'll skip those, Nana. Sorry."
He scrounges up the willpower to finally glance at Eddy, and—he's cool as a cucumber. His hair's a bird's nest after Brett's fingers had been done with them and his collar's all askew, but his face is the picture perfect example of collectedness. He looks like someone who's been kissed but hasn't been moved by it. What the fuck.
(Deep down, near the center of the earth where there's molten lava, Brett feels just the teensiest bit hurt.)
"Ach, you boys are no fun." Helen shakes her head, picking up another christmas ball for her to paint on. "Come now, let us continue our work."
Brett turns away from everyone immediately, burying himself elbow-deep in leaves and wires. When he's sure no one can see him, he sneaks a hand onto his mouth, fingers running against kiss-bruised lips. He can still feel phantom pressure on them, soft and demanding and—
Shit. Maybe Brett Yang really is an idiot.