For the first time in a good long while, Brett wakes up long before Eddy does.
He lies awake in bed for a bleary-eyed moment, watching the faint winter sunshine stream through the curtains, hazy strips of light across his vision. He is pointedly, painfully aware of the quiet snores emanating from the other side of the bed, the warmth he imagines radiating through the Pillow Wall like unstoppable lances of fire through the cloth, ashes hot enough to kindle his paper-skin.
As more of the world comes into focus, he realizes: there's a Problem. An inevitable sort of Morning Problem.
It isn't anything to be ashamed about, not really, and more so with Eddy; they've been friends far too long to be shy about something as trivial and commonplace as morning wood. Still, the memory of that blinding, blistering kiss is—something. It's a stimulating memory, whether he means it to be or not, and he certainly does not fucking mean it to be at all.
God. He shouldn't even be thinking about it still, until now, stupid brain.
(A confession he'll take to the depths of his grave: he's never been kissed like that before. Fuck, it makes him sound like an absolute wilting virgin in spite of all the people he's locked lips with, but it's true.)
And as much as he'd like to laze around some more in this half-waking, he needs to take care of his business before Eddy blinks his eyes open and sees. Sees—whatever it is he might see, and then come to the wrong conclusion.
(He's not quite sure what the conclusion is anymore.)
Hoisting himself up, Brett crawls across the mattress all ninja-like, wriggling off the bed and onto the soft rug muffling his footfalls. Skittering across the bedroom floor and into the bathroom like a startled rat isn't exactly his finest moment, but the maneuver puts several more feet and a locked door between himself and his friend, so really, it's his finest effort, at the very least.
He swans into the shower, throws his clothes in the laundry basket, grits his teeth as cold water thunders down on his skin from the shower head, and then.
Brett takes himself in hand and takes care of business, as the saying goes, with the kind of single-minded focus he normally reserves for playing Paganini pieces or high-stakes games of Operation back at the con.
And if his mind strays to someone close, someone dear, someone still wrapped up in soft sheets just on the other side of the wall—
Well. His mind's just confused by the early morning haze, is all.
• • •
Despite the strange sort of relief that settles over his shoulders after, guilt remains a persistent imp poking tiny holes in the walls of his stomach. Considering the fact that he's sitting at the breakfast counter watching the unintended star of his morning-shower fantasy trying to flip a pancake, it's more than reasonable for Brett to feel a teensy bit unsettled. Uneasy. And for all his bravado about supposedly being unshakeable with this whole thing, he's sweating bullets even in the chill of winter.
So, there's only one thing to do: pretend everything's fine and dandy like his life depends on it.
What he's done: it's not exactly an isolated occurrence, when he thinks about it. People probably think about their best friends by accident all the time when they get off, or something, so. Yes. Maybe he should just stop thinking about it now, or the man in question will—
"Earth to Brett Yang. Earth to Brett Yang."
—notice. Yep, just like that, Brett you moron.
He covers his slip up with a slightly exaggerated yawn, his gaze darting up to meet his friend's in a way he hopes doesn't look startled. "Hmmh? What?"
Eddy gives him a funny look. Shit. Not looking too good right off the bat. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just—I'm still sleepy, I guess." He rubs his eyes for good measure, displacing his glasses from the bridge of his nose. It's not quite clear if Eddy's buying his acting facade, but then the other man's shrugging and turning back to the stove, so. Brett counts that as a win. Double win, because pancakes, of course.
In no time at all, they're both watching maple syrup and butter dribble down the fluffy cakes in a medley of delicious goodness, and if he gets a little too misty-eyed staring at a breakfast meal of all things, it's all fine because Eddy's not going to rat him out.
He's about to dig in when a warm cup slides into his palm, Eddy the exerting force behind the movement. "Well, here, take your coffee," he mumbles, words slightly obscured from behind the rim of the mug he's put against his mouth, turning his gaze somewhere over Brett's shoulder in the general vicinity of the window like he's suddenly found something interesting to look at elsewhere.
Their fingers brush as they make the hand-off. A shiver ripples down Brett's spine, and he has to cough dramatically to mask the way his body jolts. What the fuck. "Thanks, man," he replies, managing a smile as he quickly downs a few gulps of the beverage, only vaguely aware of the burning sting on his tongue.
Breathe in, breathe out. It's just Eddy. Good 'ol Eddy. There's no reason to be nervous around him, of course not, stop.
"So," the word slices through the air like a knife, and it's only now that Brett realizes they've just been sitting there for a while, dumb as rocks and not talking, which is quite frankly out of the ordinary, especially in Brett's corner. Eddy used to complain Brett was relentlessly wordy in the morning, whether or not he was hungover or exhausted.
God, leave it to him to clamp up like an idiot right this very moment. Brett clucks his tongue and raises his eyebrows at Eddy. "So—what?"
"Have you been holding out on me?" At the scrunched up face he makes at that question, Eddy laughs. "Nana told me about this skating rink around here, and you never even said a word, bro, c'mon." There's a twinkle in his eyes that makes something in Brett's stomach cramp, and if he were a more suspicious sort of person, Brett would call him out on his bullshit or whatever he's trying to do here. "Finish your breakfast, quick. We're going ice skating."
"Oh yeah?" He chuckles, shaking his head faintly in amusement. Ice skating? He could think of better things to pass the time. More important things, even. Case in point: "What about practicing that duet you promised her?"
"I mean, you were gonna go along with it anyway, so hey." Eddy smirks, plucks their empty coffee mugs and carries them over to the sink. "And don't worry about the duet. Remember the Jingle Bells medley we did last year?"
Brett does, but he can't quite figure out how it connects to their dilemma. "That was an orchestral piece, though?"
"Well, lucky for us, my ex arranged a duet out of Jingle Bells way back then." Right as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, Eddy's face flushes red, faint color rushing to his cheeks. He swivels to face the sink, washes the cups clean. "He, uh, he made it so he and I could play it together. The arrangement's really good, so I thought—y'know, maybe we could use it for the duet. He'll probably flip his shit if he knew, though, so, uh. Don't tell?"
The other man shares this piece of information like it still means something to him, despite everything, and Brett is—Brett is—
Resoundingly not jealous, because you have no fucking right to be, you idiot.
He manages to wrench a laugh from somewhere in his chest, leaning his forehead against the fist he's got propped up on the counter. Thank god Eddy's turned away from him, the rush of faucet water drowning out the sharp edges in his voice. "Yeah, of course, but wow, rubbing it in much, huh, Mr. Heartbreaker?"
Laughter mingles with the trickle of water. "Aw, don't worry, no one can compare to you, sweetcakes."
"Funny," Brett snorts, allowing his stance to relax once Eddy looks over towards him again. "I'm never gonna live that one down, huh?"
"Nah. And really, when it comes down to the two of us?" There's a strange half-smile on his friend's face. Brett's gaze flickers down, then back up again. "You'd be more likely to take that title, bro."
He doesn't quite know how to respond to that aside from a half-hearted shrug, but then Eddy's hustling him over to the door, and the moment is lost.
• • •
"This was a stupid idea."
Eddy laughs at him at that, but Brett's too busy trying to keep his balance to get back at him for it. Cheeky bastard.
So in the end, he'd given in to his friend's wishes. Now, he's teetering uncomfortably over the ice, his knees shaking like trees in a storm. He is and has been many things in his life, but he is not and has never been a naturally gifted skater. He'd rather stick to a stage than a skating rink, thank you very much.
In complete contrast, Eddy seems to win at everything in life like a fucking champ, and so yeah, it's definitely par for the course that he knows his way out on the ice. It's still totally unfair, though. Brett's got half a mind to stick his foot out all childishly in an attempt to stop the other man's graceful strides, but then—nah. That's just not on.
Somewhere in between fumbling over wearing skates and making their way out into the white arena, they've ended up holding hands. Which is good. More than good. Brett's not saying shit, though; he's just going to clamp down hard on the warm appendage wrapped around his own and pretend it's all because he doesn't want to fall down on his ass. By the looks of it, Eddy seems to believe him, so. He's doing things right here.
"You're just saying that 'cause you can't skate good."
"Bro, you'd feel this way too if you were me right now," he complains, casting his gaze out into the open area around them. There's a fair amount of people around: a family linking their arms together like a human train, a couple of children giggling as they race each other around the edges of the rink. The sight of the latter makes him groan flamboyantly. "God. Even little kids got more game than I do."
Eddy shakes his head. His shoulders are shaking ever so minutely, like he's barely holding back his amusement. "Aw, we'll get you used to it sometime soon. Let's go a little bit faster, hey? I'll catch you if you fall."
"Psh." He rolls his eyes, tugs hard at the sleeve he's clinging to. "Don't worry, babe, I'll catch you if you fall."
Eddy raises his eyebrows at him. "Says the man wobbling like a newborn duckling."
"Duckling? How dare you."
"Cute, cuddly, quacks a whole fuckton, waddles around like a bumbling simpleton." The other man flicks a wayward strand of hair off Brett's forehead, a sparkling grin on his lips. "You're a lovely little duckling, ain't ya?"
He shouldn't be this flattered. He shouldn't be affected by being called cute or cuddly, and especially being called cute or cuddly by Eddy Chen, of all fucking people. No way. Brett pushes down the blistering feeling in his chest and lets out a throaty laugh. "I'm pretty sure I'm being insulted somewhere in there, so no thanks."
"Fine, I'll take back half my statements then." Eddy presses their shoulders together, nudging him with a smile. "Cute and cuddly it is."
"Yeesh, you sap." The glow in his chest is second only to the warmth Eddy emanates, an irresistible furnace just within reach, and—shit. He has to, now, doesn't he? "Excuse me, but you're doing this all wrong." He'll be proud of this little maneuver later, but Brett manages to pivot perfectly on the ice without a single wobble, pushing himself straight into Eddy's arms, his face fitting into the curve of Eddy's neck. He wraps his arms around the other man and squeezes tight, trusting in his friend's reflexes to balance them out on the slippery floor. "This is how you cuddle, bitch."
Somewhat distantly, he hears the loud thundering of Eddy's heart, through the thick layers of fabric, but he's more than a little too distracted to point that fact out or make sense of it at all. His body feels like a livewire, sparks jolting down the length of his spine. Brett suppresses a shiver and hums appreciatively as the taller man mirrors the motion, his arms creeping slow around Brett's frame.
"Yeah. This is," Eddy trails off, and the breath in his lungs seems to hold back as he waits for the answer, "nice."
Nice, he says.
(It's like Eddy isn't as affected as he is, and god, but he wants to unsettle the man just as much as he unsettles Brett. Have more of a foothold in that organ beating loud against his ear to match his own wardrum heartbeat.)
Brett chuckles, smacking the undefended bicep within his reach. "You better say more than just nice, you fucker. I'm giving it my all here."
If not for the fact that he's practically clinging to Eddy like a persistent limpet, he would've never heard the whispered words falling from his friend's lips, low and just a teensy bit sharp. "Well, you're not, really."
Brett untangles himself from those strong arms, pins the other man with a confused look. The fuck? "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just," Eddy shrugs, turning his gaze away. "Y'know. You're just acting, so it's not really your all." A laugh so forced, it grates on Brett's ears. "Not that that's bad, nah. Anyway, forget it—I was just messing with you! God, you should see your face."
As much as he wants to drop this subject, because heaven knows what might come out of his mouth should he try to tackle this, Brett owes it to this man to at least try and make things right. There had been something in Eddy's eyes, something like pain or misery. And even though the mere thought of backtracking on their plans feels like a tooth being pulled out, Brett would do anything to keep those hateful emotions out of Eddy's eyes. "Hey. If you're regretting this, or having second thoughts, or some shit—"
"No, no. 'Course not, bro." Eddy shakes his head, takes Brett's arm and tucks it under his own. "I'm in this with you, remember? I wanna get my hands on those manuscripts just as much as you do. We'll get through this, and then we can go home and stop lying to everyone."
And this is where everything circles around to, right? The fucking manuscripts. As much as he still cares a whole lot about those, and especially the Strad still on the line for him here, he's starting to resent those things, just a little.
"Yeah." Despite Eddy's assurances, his gut is still churning up a storm. He can't just move on like it's nobody's business. "Sorry about the whole—"
"Calm the fuck down, Brett." Eddy sighs, leans his head against Brett's in a show of intimacy that goddamn near breaks his heart. "I wanted to do this with you. I'm with you. Don't take that decision away from me."
With his skin wrapped up in warmth and the organ in his chest banging away at the drum walls of his ribs, Brett's aware of only one crystallic truth—
You don't deserve him, Brett.
(And somewhere deep down, Brett begins to think about what it might mean to be someone Eddy deserves to have at his side.)