It feels as if his world is on the precipice of a knife, or perhaps a craggy clifftop hanging over a tumultuous sea of violas. Air is crystallized in his lungs, frozen and clammy against the walls of his chest.
Funny, how everything so carefully constructed can come crashing down around his ears with a single query, inadvertently aimed straight at the very heart of him. Really fucking funny, that.
You and Brett aren't really together, right?
He feels himself grow cold. Charles is watching him absorb the question with a strange smile on his face. With every millisecond that goes by without anything said in defense of his supposed relationship with his best friend, Eddy's probably slowly digging his own grave.
In the end, he settles for deflection, because he may be fucked at this point in time, but there is no way he's letting things go up in flames without doing anything to salvage the situation. There's still their prize to consider, waiting for them at the end of this. He's not about to let Brett down just yet by falling short just before the finish line.
"You're being very presumptuous," Eddy says. Very casually.
"Am I really?" The red-haired man tilts his head, narrows his eyes at him. "You don't really act like you're lovers, at least when Nana's not around." He pauses. "Or, well. You do, but he doesn't," Charles continues, and shit, that is a really low blow. Eddy looks away, fixes his gaze on the window pane, the ice crawling up the sill. "Maybe he doesn't want to feel it."
And, well. What do you say to your worst fears realized, spelled out word for word in front of you? What do you say when the faint flicker of hope you've been unknowingly keeping alive at the candlewick of your heart begins to fade away?
He can pretend. He's been doing it so well so far; he can do this much. Eddy frowns at the other man thunderously. "That's not funny."
Charles pouts. "No?"
"No."
"So what's the deal, then? Are you guys playing at something?"
Eddy takes a deep breath. Releases it. "We're not playing at anything. We don't act like lovers because that's just how we are." (It's just how we'll always be, because we're never crossing that line. Don't remind me, please, god, I—) "I don't care what he may or may not be showing the world about loving me, because I know he's mine. He's mine, and that's—that's just," and here, his voice fails him.
He's mine.
He clamps his mouth shut, but the damage had already been done. There's understanding dawning in those eyes now, and Eddy knows the jig is up. "You're in love with him, then."
He's never once confessed this to someone he barely knows, but here, miles away from everything he knows and stuck defending a supposed love for him that doesn't exist in the heart he wants it to, Eddy finds himself courageous. "Yeah," he says, resolute. Like he's been waiting a decade to say it out loud. Maybe he has. "I am."
Silence, but for the wind rustling outside.
"I see." Charles clears his throat, awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to another. "He doesn't deserve you. And nope," he snaps a hand to stop the instinctual defense, and Eddy closes his mouth back up, "don't even try to convince me otherwise. Your opinion isn't objective, lover boy."
"Well, I mean," Eddy trails off, smiles unrepentantly because hey. "That is the man I love you're speaking of."
Charles shrugs. "Still. But—he's a very lucky man for someone like you to love him without much of anything you want in return." He doesn't know what to say in response to that, and so he opts to nod wordlessly. "I know when I'm beaten, but if you ever find it in yourself one day to look for someone new and probably better? Just let me know."
Fuck, if it were only that easy. "I'll probably think about it, Charles. No promises, though—I'm pretty much a sucker for my guy." Eddy shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly remembering the whole debacle that had led to the current conversation. "But, uh. I really am sorry."
"Nah, don't apologize. It's all good." Charles waves a dismissive hand at him, smiling all the while. "Besides, I'm sure I'll feel better when I make Mister Yang squirm a bit. He looks so fucking funny when he's jealous."
"I don't like what you're planning." God, but there's something in him that wants to see what that might look like. A little spark of curiosity, a little hint of selfishness: what would Brett Yang look like if he were jealous over Eddy Chen? It might just be all pretend on Brett's part, with the whole fake dating thing, but it's a tantalizing thought.
"Hey, c'mon, don't worry! This is me being helpful, see? You don't need to know anything, and I won't do anything untoward." Charles grins, pats him on the shoulder in a decidedly platonic way, which is something he can appreciate. "Just sit back and watch the sparks fly."
Eddy says nothing, only smiles in reply. There's a jab of wistfulness somewhere along his ribcage, but it's so minute, he can almost ignore it.
• • •
True to his word, Charles doesn't do anything more than share a few dirty jokes here, a sensuous glance there. It doesn't even take much to respond in kind with flushed cheeks and genuine laughter, because hell, the ginger-haired man really does have a wicked sense of humor.
He's only got eyes for Brett, however.
He knows his best friend like the back of his hand, like a nursery rhyme chanted over and over again: muscle memory. There is legitimate amusement in Brett's visage, his laughter riotous and his eyes crinkling. Still, there is an underlying edge to his words. There's a small anxious tic curling at the edge of his lip. Eddy presses his leg against the other man's own nonchalantly in support of—whatever on earth is happening.
They move to another room to practice their duet after breakfast, and lo and behold, Charles saunters his way into the room with them, continuing his one man show of doting debonair, and okay, there's something different this time in Brett's expression. Eddy doesn't want to try and name the emotion the first time around, but Charles names it out loud for him, molds it into reality: a crystalline thought hanging in the air between them.
"Shit, dude," the man whispers lowly, words intended for Eddy's ears alone, but just in case Brett's ears are sharper than he knows, he compensates with a particularly forceful ricochet. "He looks positively green with envy; this is amazing."
And so he does. Fuck.
A dilemma: Eddy has no clue what to do with the fact that Brett's gaze is minutes and a miracle away from setting Charles on fire. Very good acting, he thinks very hard at the thunderstorm brewing on his best friend's brow. Almost enough to convince him that Brett's giving a genuine performance, that he really is thinking of imaginary bodily harm just because someone's giving Eddy a whole lot of undue attention, coming just a little bit too close.
What would Brett Yang look like if he were jealous over Eddy Chen?
Like he's an angry tornado encased in human flesh. It's fucking attractive, is what it is, and Eddy's trying his damnedest to pretend he isn't getting affected, pretend he isn't just the teensiest bit giddy.
The unsubtle winking Charles keeps sending his way isn't helpful at all.
It all comes to a head when Brett suddenly throws himself down on a chair, looking a little bit shell shocked. Eddy leaps to attention, moving over to check up on him, because the charade might be a little fun, but his best friend's wellbeing is of the highest importance. He is waved away though—just peachy—and then they resume again from bar fifteen. When Eddy drops off to let Brett play his solo part, though, the red-haired predator pounces.
"That was awesome," Charles exclaims, winding an arm around Eddy's shoulder, suddenly very present and there within his personal space. "Eddy, that was wonderful; I have no complaints. But can I suggest something? Don't you think you guys could do a little—"
Brett's martelé on the next phrase is so violent, Eddy's half-worried he'd snap a string. It's done in the same way one would slam a glass on the bar in a lonely club at three in the morning: fed up, overflowing, bruised.
Something in Eddy's gut trembles at the fact.
Charles is startled enough to jump back a few steps, which is good, because Brett's setting his violin down and moving forward with unreadable, strangely determined purpose, and Eddy's probably about to get thrown out the window for allowing Charles' flirtatious brand of third-wheeling to continue unhindered, but then.
"It's true. You really are wonderful," Brett tells him, moving closer to grab his face, pulling it down to seal their mouths together.
This kiss makes all the other chaste cheek pecks and closed-lip touches from their performances out on the town pale in comparison, blinding sun against glittering stars. Just like that first blistering kiss in Nana's arts and crafts room, this kiss burns like fire. Like longing starlight.
Eddy feels himself cast afloat in the warm dampness of Brett's mouth, a lone buoy in a traitorous sea with nothing to hold onto. His fingers grip desperately at Brett's arm, the crook of his elbow; he has to stoop down to chase that mouth when it seems like it's about to move away.
Brett's thumb strokes against his cheek. God, but the simplest of actions make him shiver from head to toe.
It ends all too soon, this union. Brett doesn't immediately step back and away, though: his hand remains at Eddy's cheek, the other clinging to Eddy's wrist, near the point where his pulse is frantically racing. God, please don't let him feel it.
"Y-you sure you're okay?" His voice wobbles unsteadily all throughout that question.
"Just peachy," Brett repeats, slightly breathless, pupils blown wide and dark as sin. Fuck, a desperately flailing thought in Eddy's mind shrieks, fuck, I did that.
There's a wolf-whistle suddenly, shattering the ache-clenched moment, and they finally break apart like they've been burned. Eddy had almost forgotten Charles had been in the room with them all this time. "That was hot," the man himself quips, fanning himself.
Brett takes one long look at him and then leaves the room, mumbling out an excuse about going to the bathroom. Or something. Eddy's still a little loopy in the aftermath.
"Oh-ho, my god." Charles is smiling like the Cheshire cat. Goddamn. "Well, I'm satisfied with my accomplishments for today. He definitely squirmed, alright." He looks over at the other man and smirks. "How are you feeling?"
There is no way in hell Eddy's ever going to give voice to the mangled gibberish flying around his brain, and so he just shrugs helplessly. Charles, ever the wildchild instigator, throws his head back and laughs.
• • •
The storm being reported on the radio seems to be making its slow approach, the winds and snow outside beginning to fall heavily on Lamerra. Helen advises them not to go outside for now, and so they're relaxing in their room together when the question is asked. It throws Eddy off more than the surprise Brett-initiated kiss had, which is a testament to how far out of left field it's come from.
"Have you ever been in love with anyone?"
(A hell of a question unknowingly asked.)
You, you fucking bastard, who else? The words thankfully do not spill out of Eddy's mouth unchecked. He does nearly choke on his spit, however. Rolling over on the bed to face the man seated in the armchair by the window, Eddy raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean? What brings this question up?"
"Just curious, I guess." Brett's tone is hesitant, but ultimately unreadable. Where on earth is he going with this line of inquiry? "I'm not—intruding on anything right?"
"No, we already established this was fine last night. Calm down, man. It's all good."
"Yeah, but what if you met someone? Out here or—something."
The fuck? "Out here?" Eddy looks around the room with a look of incredulity, waving a hand out in emphasis. "When I'm here with you on our little mission? Really?"
"Yeah, alright, nevermind." Brett snorts, Eddy laughs; it means you're just worried, I know, no harm done. There's a few minutes of silence, and Eddy's just about to doze off when the conversation unexpectedly continues: "You didn't answer my question, though."
Ah, shit.
"Well," he trails off, staring pointedly up at the ceiling, the spider-web cracks in the old varnish. He doesn't want to lie, not to Brett, but god, can he even say anything that won't be immediately incriminating? Or maybe—maybe this is his chance to unburden himself a bit, cast a decade's worth of secrets down at the altar of Brett's feet without him even knowing.
An indirect confession. Good fucking plan.
Eddy clears his throat. "I, uh, did love someone." Yeah, there: past tense. Brett will never figure it out. "Still do a little bit even now, but. Yeah. He's, um."
Brett looks over at him. "He?"
There's no judgement in that clarification, only curiosity. Besides, Eddy knows full well that Brett swings both ways. Stamping down the faint jealousy curling in his gut, Eddy confirms this. "Yeah, he." And then, well.
How do you go about describing a person to their face without them knowing you're talking about them? It's a fucking minefield, really.
"He's," all I ever wanted and will ever want, always. Eddy clenches and unclenches his fists. Not off to a great start already. Something simple, first. Something true.
Take two.
"He's very brave. Bold. Real clever. Has a way with words. Likes to cause trouble, but he gets us out of it most times too." A besotted smile sneaks its way onto Eddy's lips, unbidden. "He's—really talented with the violin. Way more talented than me, even, but I can't ever tell him that. Not because his head will swell up, but because he'll deny it, that fucker. He's more humble than he knows, always pointing the spotlight at me when it should be on him, and it's kinda unbelievable." A pause to catch his breath, draw the longing back in before it overwhelms him. "He knows me," more than anyone else, but Eddy shakes his head, too obvious, "more than most. I can be myself around him. I don't have to pretend to be anyone else than who I am. That's really the thing I love most about him."
(It doesn't occur to him to frame this all in the past, loved instead of love. That in itself is telling to any outsider looking in.)
There's stillness in the aftermatch. Eddy takes a few slow breaths before he musters up the courage to look Brett in the eye. There's something unspooled in his gaze, the way he blinks slowly as if absorbing the information and processing what he should feel about it in conclusion.
Because he doesn't want to see what that conclusion might be, and also because he's a sucker for pain, Eddy points the question back at his best friend: "So? Have you ever been in love with anyone?"
Brett jolts a bit, startled. "Oh, uh. No. Or I don't know," he says, and hell, there it is. There's the answer to the question, the only question he's ever had ever. His fears are staring him in the eye. The candle in his chest begins to melt, hot wax against the rib. Eddy turns his gaze back to the ceiling and bites his lip hard enough to bleed.
The shorter man continues, unknowingly merciless."I've never really thought about it. I've liked people here and there, dated around, but I can't really—I can't really say I was in love with anybody. I think."
Fucking hell on a stick. "So what would it take for someone to be loved, for you?" Eddy closes his eyes, surreptitiously licks the crimson drops off his teeth. What would it take for you to possibly love me too? "What would make you love someone, you think?"
"I don't know," Brett sighs, leaning his head against the back of the armchair. "Someone dependable, I think. Thoughtful. Someone who'll listen to my bullshit and won't think me less for it. Someone who'll be there when I need them, who'll let me be weak with them. Someone who—"
The words cut off there. Eddy waits for a continuation, anything, but with nothing forthcoming, he turns and looks over, and stares.
There's something raw on Brett's face, like an egg cracked open on gritty cement. His eyes are wide, gaze unfocused, mouth fallen open, and oh lord, Eddy knows that look. Realization. It takes everything in him not to jump up and shake those beloved shoulders and scream what did you realize, what did you learn, tell me, who are you thinking about right at this moment?
"You okay?" He offers the question like an olive branch.
"Yeah," Brett says, finally, with a breathless chuckle that's this close to sounding manic. Eddy's hands itch to hold him. "It's nothing, sorry. Lost myself for a moment there."
He'd sell an internal organ—two internal organs to see into Brett's thoughts right at this moment. Seeing as that's not possible, Eddy opts to laugh instead. "Right, okay. Okay, cool. That was very, uh, informative."
"Yeah." Brett wipes at his mouth and stands up. "I gotta go check on Nana, see if she needed me for something, if that's okay?"
"Oh, yeah, sure, go ahead," he says, waving a hand to shoo him away. Brett smiles, begins to move towards the door. Eddy closes his eyes; he's expecting the other man to just waltz out the door without anything more, but then.
There's warm fingers brushing his hair away from his temple. A slight press of lips against his forehead. Eddy blinks his eyes open in shock.
Brett doesn't have the fucking decency to look back at him over his shoulder after that devastating blow to his already crumbling composure, which, fine. He can do whatever he wants. Whatever makes him want to start giving Eddy forehead kisses like it's no big deal: it's cool, it's all fine.
Eddy closes his eyes again and tries to think of nothing. Nothing at all.
He's okay. He's okay.
• • •
(He is not okay.)
"Belle," he whispers wretchedly into the phone cradled in the crook of his neck as he curls up in bed, watching the white landscape shift and transform into indiscernible shapes beyond the frosted glass.
The sigh rings out from the other side of the world, crawling deep into the chest of him. "Oh, Eddy," his sister tells him, and she stays on the line, and she listens.
(Outside, the storm rages in the distance. It looms, waiting in the wings.)