Never let it be said that Helen Lee Yang is not an opportunist.
Brett's only made it five steps into the room, absentmindedly outlining the curve of Eddy's shoulders under that coat with his gaze, when a weathered hand finds its way onto his arm, grasping tight in the manner he'd once come to associate with sudden vanishing acts on Halloween and quiet meetings behind his parent's backs, and oh no, oh god.
He knows what's coming. An interrogation is not what he needs nor wants right now, not with his head in a tizzy over—whatever had happened out on the ice rink today.
"I will borrow my grandson for a bit, if that is alright, Edward," Helen says serenely. Nothing to see here, nothing to worry about, says her countenance. Bullshit, Brett thinks, with a large amount of respect and yet no small hint of terror.
"Oh, uh," Eddy hesitates, looking over to him, but clearly, whatever softness that had befallen them just a while ago has already jumped off a cliff or something, because the next thing that the taller man does is smile and wave a hand in the other direction. Despite Brett's best constipated expression aimed directly at him, the traitor. "Sure, Nana. I'll just be upstairs."
And with that, his best friend's left him at the mercy of his grandmother. Great.
Several moments later, he's forced to admit that this sudden baking escapade with his grandmother isn't so bad, really. The kitchen's warm: a welcome change of temperature and scenery after the cold of the outside. Brett finds himself holding spatulas and baking pans, stirring bowls of batter and butter on the marble counter. Despite the cosy atmosphere and the gut-rumbling smell of almonds and chocolates in the air, it's pretty evident that the threat of interrogation is still there. He's probably hallucinating the strange twinkle in Helen's eyes, but still. He's not (that much of) an idiot; it's obvious there's something going on.
Fuck it. If he's going to die of mortification or something, then he might as well go with a stomach full of warm cookies and cinnamon on his tongue.
"Oh, do not look so tense, Little Yang." Helen smiles at him, remarkably angelic for someone he's heard chewing out rude grey-haired conductors right in front of entire orchestras back then. Brett's not scared shitless of his ancestor. He is not. "I am not going to scold you or anything."
"Psh, no, of course not, grandmamma. Why would I think that?"
"Your mouth is trembling like a little child," she points out, and Brett immediately bites down on his lip, which really has been shaking. Shit. "Ach. You think I do not know your tells."
Well, there goes any hope of making it through this thing unscathed. "You're thinking that I should be telling you something."
"I do not know what you mean." Helen puts her whisk down and pivots to face him, hands on hips. "Is there something you should be telling me?"
Eddy and I are lying to you because we aren't really a couple; we're only pretending for the manuscripts you promised me, but then I'm lying to Eddy by not telling him about the Strad that you've also promised to give me, and he might hate me if he ever finds out because I lied to him, and also I'm getting weird tingly feelings about Eddy that I'm still trying to process, but I can't catch a break to wrap my head around it because we're still keeping up this charade for you, full circle cycle kind of shit, and—
Yeah right. There is no fucking way he's saying any of that. Brett settles for the succinct, altogether deceitful route: "No."
"Then there is nothing to speak about, dear boy." She blinks at him for a few moments, eerily silent, before she turns back to her mixing bowl. "You have been restless ever since you came to the house. Is there something wrong?" Brett shakes his head, says no again. "Well then, let us keep baking. I do not like this skinny body; you look like a twig. Let Nana feed you while you're here."
Brett laughs, stamping down the rush of unbridled relief surging through his blood. Crisis narrowly averted. Thank god and every deity out there.
They get to working quietly again. Soon enough, the kitchen counter is laden with brownies and cookies and tarts, some to be eaten during the Christmas party Helen's planning in a few days. Brett still can't believe that's a thing. At least it's giving him and Eddy pressure to practice. Without it, he thinks he might've never touched his violin the entire stay here, not once. Some would say that would be an act of sacrilege, but it's shamefully true.
He's been staring longingly at the chocolate brownies for a while when Helen looks at him with a considering glance. "You know, you two younglings inspire me very much." That's a strange statement. Brett looks up at her questioningly. "You look at each other with a lot of love. Very rare to see these days. It makes my heart feel full, you know."
That—had not been anywhere close to what Brett had expected her to say. "A lot of love, huh?" He chuckles, half amusement and half anxiety as he leans down to inspect the marshmallows on top of the brownies. "More me than him, right?"
He's not fishing for third-party information, not really. He's just curious. Investigatory. What do others think of their facade? Have they been successful so far in making others think that they were—
Helen's snort jolts him back to reality. "More him than you, Little Yang. I am sorry. He has the—aiyah, what do you children call it nowadays? Heart eyes, and then that curse word about having intimate relations with someone's mama?" The old woman shakes her head. "Rather—he looks at you like you are the Sibelius concerto incarnate. Does that make any sense? Ach, I am getting old."
He doesn't quite know which part of that whole thing to tackle first, so the autopilot of his brain goes with: "Where did you learn the heart eyes thing, grandmamma?"
"I use the Facebook, I told you. I know memes now." She should not sound that smug discussing her newfound knowledge of the internet's intricacies, but Brett's too far gone to call her out, too caught on he looks at you like you're the Sibelius concerto incarnate, because really, what the fuck. What the fuck.
Does his grandmother even know the context of the Sibelius violin concerto when applied to Eddy? Does she know that of all the pieces they've learned and performed all these years at the con, the Sibelius violin concerto is and has always been Eddy's favorite piece? A piece he considers belo—No.
(No, no, no. He is not going to go there.)
His head hurts just thinking about this whole thing. God, had he known this was going to happen to him here, he would've audibly begged to go upstairs with his best friend earlier. Makes him sound like a petulant kid, but god, he really would've.
"Yeah. Yeah. That's, uh." Brett clears his throat, stares hard at the eggshells lining his side of the table. "That's really good, grandmamma."
If Helen's at all aware of his inner meltdown, she mercifully pays no outward attention to it. "What I am saying is—you really are lucky to have Edward, idiot boy. You both are very lucky to have each other." The gleam in her eyes dims, then, as her expression morphs into something unreadable. "Do not let him slip away."
Brett coughs, turning away so she doesn't see what must be an absolute mess of emotions on his face. Shit, he can't handle this, not right now. "Of course not, Nana," he forces himself to chuckle, throwing a hand out towards the baked goods on the nearby flat surfaces. "After all, he won't leave me with these tasty treats I can use to keep him around, right?"
When he lifts his gaze to catch Helen's gaze, there's a look of pity, of sad understanding in her eyes. The look sends a heavy stone hurtling through his throat, closing up his windpipe. "Sometimes it takes a little more heart work than that, dearie."
And, well. He doesn't know what to say to that.
"These are for Eddy," he says, carefully not looking at his grandmother as he begins to set aside a tray of biscuits and some icing, carefully not mentioning anything about how the biscuits are called coffee kisses, formally speaking. "Don't give them away to your guests, please."
Helen smiles, doesn't say anything in reply.
• • •
When you hear something along the lines of your best-friend-slash-fake-boyfriend looks at you like the piece he considers the best one on the planet suddenly got human skin and a body and started walking around, it changes something in you. Brett isn't quite sure what exactly has changed, but all he knows is that something has. There's a strange ache simmering in the floodwaters of his stomach, just there. It's stressing him the fuck out.
He's so zonked out that he barely registers the radio chattering away about weather news—Something about heavy snowfall? A storm warning? Whatever—on his way through the halls to find Eddy. He's distracted enough not to notice the chocolates in his friend's grasp until he's hovering right above his shoulder.
"Nice Hershey's," he tells him, because Hershey's chocolates really are nice, but then.
Eddy thinks it's a gift of sorts. Eddy thinks it's from a secret admirer.
Something in Brett's chest plummets.
(It doesn't take much intellect to know this: shitty homemade coffee kisses don't hold a candle to perfect, branded chocolate kisses now, do they?)
Brett tells him he doesn't share, which is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing he's ever said in his entire life, and he's just about ready to hurl himself through the window and into the snow, but then Eddy laughs. Says nothing of it. Offers to share his chocolates. Calls him his boyfriend.
Fuck, but Brett's ecstatic at that, heart jumping through his throat as Eddy tilts his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs. The sun's warm and bright despite the snowflakes in the sky and the clouds rumbling in the distance, and he knows it's because he's here with Eddy. It's because they're here together.
The joy lasts throughout the day, fuel for the vehicle of his thoughts until they get into bed and Brett begins to doubt, guilt twisting his words into questions he probably shouldn't even be thinking about, but then.
He asks permission, skin against skin. He twines their fingers together, and they hold.
There's no living my best life without you. You gotta know that, right?
The organ in his chest shivers, trembles with the knowing.
Not without you.
"Incorrigible," he says, but he's still breathless, paper lungs trying not to catch fire on the matchstick spark of those words.
Not without you.
And god, but there is something. There's something different about Brett, and for the life of him, Brett can't quite figure out what exactly it is.
He waits until Eddy's asleep, breath evened out and limbs in repose, and then he moves his palm back onto his friend's hand, thumb lightly resting against Eddy's pulse point.
The Pillow Wall's been breached. No one has to know.
• • •
He wakes up the next morning a hell of a lot later than he had been planning to wake up, but nevertheless, Brett tumbles down the stairs with the grace of a newly born gazelle.
"Good morning," he calls to Eddy down the hall, who startles and turns around hurriedly to face him.
"Hey, Brett," Eddy replies, and then another head pops out from behind him, and it's Charles, grinning and waving at him with a good morning of his own. There's a slight blush to Eddy's cheeks.
Uh, okay. Right then.
This time around, Charles is there at the breakfast table with them, seating himself next to Helen and taking control of the spoken topics at hand in the way only a social butterfly can. Brett's all for making his grandmother happy, sure. He's all for the laughter and the jokes and the amusing discussions he has with the ginger-haired man. What he is not all for are the glances.
He's not sure if the glances are meant to be subtle at all, and if they actually are, then the two men aren't making much of an effort at it. Eddy keeps looking over to Charles and then looking away with a strange expression on his face; Charles doesn't even bother concealing the fact that he's been staring at Eddy half the time; they both visibly react when their gazes connect, Eddy's cheeks flushing and Charles' smirk growing.
It's like—it's as if they're in on a secret. Brett's the outsider, Brett's the third wheel on this bicycle ride, and goddamn, but he is not prepared for how much it hurts.
No one's been like that with Eddy before. That's—that's his place, right there. That's the place Brett's been occupying for the last decade or so.
Evidently not anymore, he thinks with no small amount of bitterness, grinding his teeth when Charles tells a joke that makes Eddy's eyes sparkle in glee.
(The fact that Eddy's seated himself so close to him, the press of his leg warm against Brett's own, is a small relief.)
It gets even worse when Charles follows them into their practice session, sitting down on the couch next to the window and grinning wide, all eyes for Eddy and Eddy alone. It's becoming increasingly apparent to Brett just how much Charles has been hanging around them, hovering at the edge of their peripheries, and maybe Brett's just too caught up in Eddy's company to notice, but he is definitely noticing it now.
Kinda hard not to, considering the fact that Charles hasn't looked at anything other than Brett's best friend for the last five minutes, give or take. That might not mean anything, but really, it's kind of—
Oh, god. Is Charles Eddy's secret admirer, gifter of Hershey's chocolates and shit?
The realization leaves him a little weak in the knees, and he slumps down into the nearby chair. Fuck, but it makes sense, though. It makes so much fucking sense.
Immediately as Brett's spine touches the back of the chair, Eddy's stepped forward, tilting his head with a faintly worried look in his eyes. "You okay?"
"Just peachy."
"You're doing great, Brett," Charles encourages him, which, honestly: not helping at all.
Still—Brett's not uncivilized. "Thanks," he says, sending a tight smile in the other man's direction before turning to Eddy. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute and then let's go over that phrase again."
"Okay." Eddy stares at him for a moment, and then walks back to the music stand. Charles stands up from his seat, saunters over to where the other man is standing and points out something on the sheet music, said too low for Brett to hear from this distance.
Eddy's laughter fills the room. There's something trying to crawl up Brett's throat. Why the hell does he feel like absolute shit?
One word curls at the edge of his tongue, waiting to take flight, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't want to say it; he doesn't want to cast it out of his mouth and the imaginary confines of his brain and make it real.
He doesn't want to know it yet, because he can't unknow it, and knowing it will hurt. Knowing it will send him down the path of no return. He can't know it yet, because it will ruin him.
(And it hurts all the more when he isn't sure that there will be anything to catch him when he falls.)
"Let's start from bar fifteen," Brett says, and then says nothing altogether.