Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eddy watches Brett go to his fridge, open it and zone out staring. His shoulders slump, drowned in Eddy's jacket, and it's immediately clear he's not going home for the night.

'There isn't anything, dude. When did you last go for groceries?'

'Dunno, I think you came with me last time too.' Eddy checks his phone, more for show than anything else, because it's already dark outside. 'It's kinda late,' he says, sounding not at all conspicuous.

He goes to check out the spotless inside of his fridge as well, hand grabbing at his friend's elbow, sliding down to his wrist propped against his hip, and Brett's left shoulder pushes into Eddy's chest as soon as he's in the appropriate range of motion. Brett might as well just say he wants to spend the night. Eddy isn't really ready to offer, it would be the fifth time this month, complacency too thick.

'Wow, there's really only ketchup and lemons left.'

'Yeah how did you not notice?'

Eddy's too fried from spending the entire day filming to come up with an answer approximately coherent, so they're left staring hazily for a while longer. Brett's head hits the fridge door with a thunk then, he snorts and rises an eyebrow at Eddy from behind his bangs, toothy grin clearly telling of his intentions.

'Right, let's go to the corner shop and get chips and ice cream.'

'Boba?'

Nothing to be ashamed, if Eddy whines a little on the word, he knows Brett understands even as he moves away.

'Mmm yeah, but it's too far. Better order on our way back.' He grabs his wallet from the kitchen table, stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. His hair stands up in random places, he rubs his eyes, fingers digging under his glasses, then looks himself over in the hallway mirror.

'Is it really obvious it's your jacket?'

'Aww, are you ashamed with your boyfriend? You hurt me, Bretty.' Eddy tries hard not to cackle, but he stands no chance against Brett's offended face. He has to lean on the nearest wall for support. They're too fucking tired, Eddy feels this break like a week long vacation. He'd even take Brett on a pretend honeymoon at this point, anything to just...just hold it together. Would that help with advertising merch?

'Mind if I take a pair of your shoes too? Mine have too many laces right now.' Right, Brett trying to appropriate his house and his things with an offending lack of shame or subtlety. He wouldn't be agreeable to running away like that, probably, as much as Eddy wants him well rested for once.

'Is this some sort of invasion, dude, what the hell. What will I lose next, my undies?'

Brett makes an noncommittal sound, vaguely horrified, in the back of his throat, shoos Eddy outside to lock the front door. It's a few steps away from the porch when Brett asks if they got a bag. And fuck, of course they haven't. In Eddy's kitchen, there's a whole cupboard full of plastic and cloth bags, waiting, numbers growing, becoming sentient probably. His brain declares this a good moment to bring up his mom's tight-lipped expression and Eddy is ready to turn back.

He doesn't, because Brett claps him on the shoulder, says 'it's fine, maybe it'll limit the amount of unhealthy crap we're gonna get if we have to carry them.'

It absolutely doesn't. He loses sight of Brett in the shop, just for a few minutes, but it's enough to end up with melted ice cream in his pockets, Pocky sticking out of his sleeves, carrying five bags of different chips, baby style, Tim Tams under his arm. Brett's got the soda and the beer, and the gummy bears are slowly slipping from between his fingers and the bottles. He's walking funny, because Eddy's shoes have taken the shape of his footsteps, leaning to the inside, the opposite of his.

Eddy has to fish the keys from Brett's pockets, has to check each one of them because Brett forgot where exactly he put them, and when he finally manages to open the door, they both go down on their knees, to ease out everything from their arms.

Brett remains on the floor to order their tea, watches how Eddy moves all the junk they got to the studio, makes grabby motions at him after, as he speaks on the phone. Eddy pulls him up to his feet exasperated, but it's too easy, he's too light. Maybe they should've gotten proper food after all.

'Tomorrow morning we're going out for breakfast dude, we're too old to be eating this shit.'

'Probably, but I'm still too young to give them up for the rest of my life. Let's film two more and then play Smash, yeah? First to shower.'

Oh, and Eddy didn't even need to ask him to stay. Nice. He could challenge that, suggest scissors paper rock, but Brett's eyes have a hazy quality to them already so he doesn't push.

Watching footage back until the boba order arrives turns out to be harder than expected, with how Brett collapses half in his lap on the couch. Eddy gets softly elbowed in the ribs and he shrieks, squirms until they're comfortably arranged, laptop barely balanced between their thighs. Brett comes closer still to leech body heat, slides down progressively, enough that he can squish his face against Eddy's arm.

Eddy knows when he's fully asleep by the change in his breathing and then he has to be careful, because Brett sleeps lightly. His body is bent at weird angles, Eddy can tell, all the places that will lock up tense once he'll try getting up. This has to be done, checking first hand what should or shouldn't be in the videos, and he loves it, he's never going to grow bored of this recorded proof that they're dumb and possibly insane. His basement is empty actually, but he still feels guilt tripping coming from the floor under his feet, an easy worded email flashing before his eyes. It's not that he has to force himself to work, not at all, he definitely never got chewed out by their editors.

It's just, Brett's tired body makes him sluggish, and old, and maybe mushy.

It feels half illegal, to watch their really old videos on his own, muted, fighting hard to steady his shoulders through silent laughter. The best part is that he remembers, more than he'd admit, and what he doesn't remember he can lip read easily enough, slightly more difficult on his own mouth rather than Brett's.

It makes sense, that he'd know Brett better, with how he spends his life looking at this face. Tomorrow Eddy's going to take him to that really nice breakfast place where he hides when he's sad, and he's going to watch Brett stuff his face until he'll have to stop, and wait, and then eat some more.

Eddy barely manages to close the Youtube tab when Brett's phone pings, pretends to be good, takes pity and lets Brett come back to the living slowly, while he retrieves their bubble tea.

He returns to his best friend biting into a full chocolate like an animal, undeterred by the clear borders on it. He has smudges around his mouth, he wipes himself with the back of his hand and makes it worse. Eddy doesn't want to think of those two weirdly flavoured bags of chips, opened on the couch, doesn't want to think of how that combination might taste. Brett's chin gets that vague crease, right under his lower lip and Eddy knows better than to question him in this state. He's easily baited with the boba in Eddy's hand though, goes to fix his face, sits down for filming without much fussing, only seems to blink himself aware once Eddy fiddles with the camera.

'That's not-... aah, not like tha-' Confused, slips in Mandarin, but he slaps his cheek half hard, tries again. 'Dude, it's not gonna focus like that, come on, it's been years.' His voice goes up on the end of his whining, snickers bleeding in, so Eddy sits down, head thrown back until it touches the window, some sort of dying sound coming out of him. It has been years.

Brett slaps his thigh under the table, hard, he puts his weight into it, but Eddy barely flinches at all. He props his head on Brett's shoulder instead, rubs his cheek into it, his right eye, since when is Brett this bony, unacceptable, Eddy has to do something about it, waits until he can hear boba being swallowed down in big bites.

'Two more, dude, don't die on me now.'

Brett reaches out to turn on the camera, shaking Eddy off in the process, blinks caught out at it, recovers quickly.

'Hello guys, and welcome to another episode of Twoset Violin.' He goes heavy on the p in 'episode' and Eddy knows to brace for Brett's shifty, fidgety, hyperactive 5 year old version coming through. But then his mouth stays open and he screams high pitched, it makes Eddy's right ear want to turn inside out.

'Today we- uh, today. Aah. What's the next video again?'

'Bro...' and Eddy's soul wants to just shut off, but Brett is there, waiting and amused and trusting. It's just for a second, that he imagines himself sleeping, allows that weakness just to know it's there.

And then he slaps his hands together, sits up straight, picks Brett up from the pit he's comfortably dissociating in.

Thinks of tomorrow, of how Brett will be offended that Eddy's scolding him over not eating properly, of how he'll deny everything, of how he'll let Eddy fix him an actual schedule, for both eating and working out. Eddy can hear it, yes, mom, yes auntie Chen, pouty and fond.

Thinks of three hours later, of his bed that smells familiar, of the stomach ache he'll have, gummy bear induced, of his open door leading into the living room, of Brett’s light breathing from the couch, steady, that Eddy can count until he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Brett can't sleep. It's not surprising, he's been telling himself since somewhere around 2pm that he needs to sleep tonight, really, really needs it. Of course he's left staring at the ceiling now. He tries hard not to guess the hour.

It's impossible for his alarm to go off any time soon, but it feels like every single one of his nerves is waiting for it, alight, ricochet behind his sternum.

There's rustling from the bed next to his, just a little ways over, floor cold between them. Something wound tight, awake sighing, slithering anxiety. The window is open and the sounds from the outside feel like live breathing.

Eddy looks worse. Probably, Brett won't go to the bathroom to check his face in the mirror right now, and everything is fuzzy without his glasses, but he turns on his side and he's hit with the sight of Eddy on his back, on top of the covers, wide-eyed, still and tense like he's about to break in half.

'I could go and you could rub one out if it helped any.' Brett is joking, though at this point he's ready to do even that. He's tempted to go for it himself, anything to just stop thinking for a bit.

He'd come up with it at first, the kick-starter, out of desperation mostly. He wishes Eddy wasn't so excited about all the dumb shit Brett's mouth lets through. He wishes they were home in Brisbane, and not having this conversation in Bara's flat. Sydney always feels like it's asking too much of him.

'Or we could get up and sneak out. Dunno, go for a run. We're gonna be tired anyway.' Anything for you to sleep, at least a few hours, he doesn't say.

If Eddy only knew, how scared Brett is right now. It's replacement fear, pushing down the panic of never achieving anything, of giving up stability, of trusting like this, not good, not enough, not right. Of dragging Eddy down with him. Brett can't come clean about this, not now, not anytime soon. It had moved too slow, once they figured Twoset isn't impossible, and he'd itched with recklessness. They need to go through with it. This is on him, pushing him down into the bed, right in the middle of his chest. For once, Eddy can't take it away.

Brett can't stand the edge in his voice bleeding in all the promos for the kick-starter, the aggressive look in his eyes. Eddy calls it pushy, but that's not even half of it.

'Brett. Dude.' Eddy still doesn't look at him. His voice is too controlled, and dry, it's weird for him to sound so remote when he's this close. He picks up his limbs slowly, turns to mirror Brett with his knees drawn up, arm hanging from the elbow off the edge of the bed. Brett blinks, forces himself to focus through the foreign darkness, and his breathing settles, finally, because that's his best friend there, choking back tears the way he does.

It's backwards, but it's what Brett knows, the relief of shouldering this weight while Eddy crumbles.

'I'm really freaked out man, I wanna do this with you but I keep thinking, you know. What if we've overestimated it. I can't last more than a week.'

Brett will make him. If it comes to that, Brett will make him, and they both know it. Eddy's just double checking.

And the truth is, Brett values Eddy way above all of this. He's always been the one to pick Brett up from all the shit he'd got himself into, to carry him through bitterness and the taste of sizzling pavement. Eddy's proficient in it by now, and he deserves carefulness. Deserves more than sleeping outside for an undetermined number of nights and playing for longer than it's healthy.

And Brett can't admit any of that, not now, under the weight of Eddy's expectations. There's potential in what they're doing, they aren't insane. Goddamn. It's always hard like this, but Brett doesn't usually bend so close to the ground.

'These hours are the worst man, I bet we're just gonna do it and it'll be over before we even know it,' self comfort, a wet lie, he isn't crying just yet, and Brett half resents him that restraint. It would be safe.

Brett gets up in a flurry of mixed intentions, all repressed, picks up his pillow and throws it on Eddy's bed, in his face. The dumbass doesn't move, doesn't flinch at all, so Brett takes him by that hanging wrist (careful, easy, it's his right, it's where his soul resides), pushes at his shoulder to roll him over, to make space for himself. Eddy only goes puppet soft, whole body heavy, the dickhead, how does he know Brett won't tickle him, won't hit him while he's down like this.

Eddy lets him in eventually, when Brett gets winded. He still ends up on less than a third of the bed, because Eddy has standards on how to be babied, but still sticks close, their shoulders touch on every other breath, sheets uncomfortably warm from leftover heat. And Brett cracks, as much as he'll allow himself.

'I can't promise you it'll be alright. But we'll be together. You can stop and I'll keep going.' It's not hard to be affectionate to Eddy. Brett has to breathe, and speak slowly, careful not to let any of his fear bleed in. There's an elbow pushing under him, then an entire forearm and a hand wiggling between his lower back and the bed, in the space the curvature of his spine leaves open. It's easier to concentrate like that, through these words he doesn't want repeated ever again, half embarrassing, half pent up.

Eddy tries tickling him to make him shut up eventually, says 'talk to me, anything else, why you think Debussy isn't absolute perfection' and Brett's heart rate settles, low enough that he can feel it in his teeth. Eddy comes first. Whatever happens, whatever they have to do for Twoset to work, Eddy comes first. It's not new, this certainty, but Brett's maybe forgotten for a while, since Eddy filled out into his body.

'He's too on the nose, too showoff-ish.'

You whine so much, how old are you again?

Eddy inhales sharply, offense on his tongue, but Brett digs his elbow into his upper arm, touches their feet together, and it breaks into giggles, ew gross dude.

'I can't think with his music, he just has to flex and hide stuff every two lines, it's annoying.'

I worry sometimes, how much I trust you. I won't survive, if you let me fall.

'He doesn't have control, it's all mellow and faded, if you're not paying attention, and there's no crispness or resolve.'

I know it's irrational, but I want to take care of you.

***

They play with a small mismatched orchestra of their own doing, on the street under the sun. Brett can barely hear himself, and his fingers ache, and he doesn't remember how sleep feels anymore, but Eddy's leading, as much as he's able.

It's second nature already, to keep an eye out for Eddy's tells, so that he won't have to actually ask for a break, so that Brett can offer before Eddy registers his own awkward posture, bent with tiredness.

One of the mornings, he holds Eddy's body wracked with dry sobbing in the clean bathroom of a coffee shop, as a random dude hurries to get out of there.

At night, Brett plays Debussy for dogs and cats.

***

They're in London when Eddy shakes him awake before sunrise probably, Brett can't guess beyond the blueish grey sky. It feels early, and Eddy says 'let's go busking' so Brett breathes out relief.

He'd hoped Eddy would be too green to bear any lasting signs of this dumb, beautiful thing they did, but he'd barely slept at all during the nights of kick-starter, his eyes always watching Brett, always open, mouth ready to call him out on offending mistakes at 4:17 in the morning. And then barely slept after, ridden with worry-tinged excitement.

And now neither of them sleep any, because they're on tour, together. (Half a truth, they pass out on every flight, every car ride, Eddy never fucking closes his mouth, he's got drool in Brett's hair, gross, he owes Brett... something. Bubble tea, until he's satisfied.)

But Eddy picks him up from the haze, gets him awake enough not to sound shit. They play by the talking Sherlock statue (why? - flashes of bunny teeth - why not?) for a long time, with people stopping for them, clapping in the wrong places.

The weather's horrible, the wind cuts around his face, but Eddy sounds bright to his right, and Brett figures he's happy maybe.

Thank god.

***

It's almost a whole year later when they're in Sidney again, just for fun. Brett suddenly becomes aware of the Bershka in his periphery, his fingers sting. He's in different clothes now, but he remembers the teeth of the zipper on that green hoodie against his cheek, the tooth brushing done in a hurry in weird places, the slow easiness of watching Eddy eat after he'd looked like he'd been about to faint not two minutes before.

Brett's violin rests safe on his back and he grabs Eddy's shirt determined, half prays Eddy would pull him away from here. He doesn't, but he pales once Brett's violin is out, once his hands are taking out his on reflex alone.

'Brett, I don't know. Haven't you had enough of this place?' His hand on the bow not as it should be, his feet turned away from Brett, shifty.

'Just the Navarra, yeah? I don't really wanna forget, but I'd like to walk through here without feeling 60 years old, you get me?'

Eddy's never refused him anything.

They play, and Brett could eat the sound, crisp, it comes in waves. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, he has to convince himself it's all of Eddy's doing, because it'd be really fucking weird to get like this from his own playing. He's not that narcissistic. Brett turns his head for Eddy's cocky smile, familiar and earned, and his heart breaks.

Tense hands, tense all the way to his shoulder, fumbling through the fingerings, hunched on himself, stomach hollowed out on stubbornness. How Eddy even sounds anywhere near right is beyond him, he looks-

Young, in a way. It hurts worse to think it, but Brett's never seen this in his life. Eddy's come to him in the beginning with violin attached, tender, unfairly good already. Brett doesn't know what this is.

Except he does. Eddy's sweating, and he's blinking quickly, not really breathing, and if Brett looks closely, he can see the pulse in the dip of his neck. Shaky bow, only not quite. Brett's careful to control his reaction, not to bring Eddy any lower, but his friend has had years of watching him.

They finish the phrase and then stop. People go by. Eddy raises one shoulder, did-my-best kind of thing, violin held softly in his left. Brett thinks oh, Eddy, says 'let's go eat, yeah?'

If they end up ordering only pancakes, and lemon ice cream, and lava cake, it's definitely not out of defeat. Brett lets Eddy drink half his cup of bubble tea. They're alright.

He buys himself a hideous shirt because Eddy showed it to him first, so excited, wonders belatedly if his empathy isn't getting abused. He gets a blister on his ankle out of nowhere, from these shoes he's worn before, and they have to stop on a bench in the sunlight with a second round of ice cream. Eddy watches his melt and drip down to the pavement while he talks at Brett new video ideas, new formats and schedules for uploading.

His ankle hurts, pain flat, distracting, it makes Eddy's internal screaming louder. He's going to have to put rubbing alcohol on it, if it opens, when they get back to Bara's place.

The electronics shop eats hours, looking at too many cameras and microphones, comparing, testing, not buying because Eddy is a nagging auntie (Brett is grateful, they'd be broke without that specific skill). Eventually his blister takes him down, so he sits himself directly on the floor, on a carpet-covered patch. He'd like to be offended that it takes Eddy ten minutes and a phone call to find him, between two aisles of vacuum cleaners. Brett figures he hasn't seen any other customers in a while.

It's dark when they come out, empty-handed, decide to take the long way home. Stop for hot pot on the way because of course, it feels like this was the point ever since they got out this morning.

Brett is heavy with food, out of breath, his bones feel too bendy to sustain his laughter. Eddy keeps bumping into him every three steps like he's forgotten how to walk, so Brett notices immediately when there isn't an elbow in his ribs anymore.

Bershka, again. He looks back, braces himself for Eddy's scared eyes, this wound Brett dug out into him. Sorry doesn't cut it.

But Eddy's down on one knee, taking his violin out, walks the few steps until he's under that lamp post where they slept all those nights. There's no one else around, just city sounds, grasshoppers. Cats and dogs.

'Right, here we go.'

Right, here you go, Brett thinks back.

He doesn't know what to expect, but Eddy playing Brett's part of Navarra better than he does just isn't it. He doesn't project as much, but it's irrelevant here, with this mellow light between them. It's different in his hands, the texture of the melody, it sounds whole on its own. Eddy looks like an anime main character, even sans wig, with music flowering through his skin, it's ridiculous.

Brett's learned not to be jealous, of this one mistress Eddy keeps close, there's just no competition, not for a best friend. Besides, Brett has one of his own, hidden closer still. It feels like he has roots coming out from his feet, growing from that blister.

He figures, he should've promised Eddy back then, that it would be alright. Not too late to tell him, when Eddy screws up on excitement alone, and laughs.

Chapter Text

Eddy has no real control over his face, no filter between brain and soul and the corners of his mouth. So Brett follows him around the house at 5:15 in the morning, two steps behind chanting 'Sibelius' at him until his mouth gets used to the shape of that word, until his tongue trips over itself, buys time for his synapses to catch up. 'Simp Sibelius' comes easily and Eddy's happiness pools slowly by Brett's ankles, fizzy.

There's a word in german, schadenfreude. An easy fall-back for when the camera is on, a second skin because Brett never favours baring himself the way Eddy does. He's tethering on the edge of embarrassing with how his fingers stray by Eddy's ribs and hair and shoulders, because they don't really do this, Brett doesn't tell him every few minutes that if he were to choose, he'd like to die with Eddy's Sibelius laying him down to sleep. It's ridiculous and fucking dramatic, but he breathes in satisfied anticipation, light, crackling with resolve, and mean laughter rises in his chest, your turn, I'll see you through. He might not be awake just yet.

Eddy stops abruptly by the kitchen entry, so Brett smacks face first into his shoulder, a little from the side, but there's no give, Eddy only leans back if anything, says 'go brush your teeth dude, I'm gonna do the dishes from last night' and wiggles ticklish when Brett's arm sneaks across his chest from behind, squeezes him short and tight. He'll have this at least, close comfort that Eddy can take without turning beet red, burning, seen.

Eddy's still shy, after all these years. Brett thinks Eddy's better for it. He'll play soloist, his dearest concerto, in his orange socks and in their Sibelius drop t-shirt, he'll go up on his tiptoes on the high notes, red and sweaty and bruising good. Brett gets to be by his side.

He takes a hazy nap through the motions of water, squeezing toothpaste, water, brushing methodically, known, harder on the canines. Tries to ignore this fondness that tickles his ribs from the inside, that made him cranky last night when Shaun kept beating Eddy in Smash. No hidden meaning in how he'd asked nicely to sub Eddy out, none at all in how he'd absolutely destroyed Shaun, vengeful laughter to his left. Brett rinses his mouth, and this spare toothbrush that's his, living in Eddy's bathroom, and figures it's alright to be a little petty sometimes. They'd gone to bed late, between driving Shaun home and talking the Sibelius out over midnight sushi, barely five hours of sleep left, just enough to turn Brett useless and decidedly clingy now.

Eddy has headphones on, with something questionable playing, judging by his tapping foot. Feet actually, which is beyond Brett, and he does some excited air punching too, with soapy hands, curses when droplets go flying. He's turned on the light above the sink, the orange hue of it spilling into the semi-darkness of the room. Brett considers scaring him for a second too long, before Eddy's excitement catches up to him, curls softly in his stomach, and he goes to sit at the table behind Eddy, maybe not disturb him, maybe take his time just watching this.

There's muted light trickling in from outside, crisp air coming through the window, biting at the skin between socks and sweatpants, it makes Brett sleepy, it smells of Korngold 3rd Movement. He can't really see Eddy's hands scrubbing carefully, but at least he has full view of him shaking his bum, embarrassing dumbass that he's known for so long. It's not bad, objectively speaking, he's caught too many girlfriends staring, he's earned the right to look. Approximately five different inappropriate questions come up in his throat, and he has to hush snorts in his bent elbow on the table.

It's something about the hour. About how Eddy's elation tastes sweet.

Brett will have to feed him tea, play him Debussy, anything to bring him down a little. Reaching 3 mill will take months, he can't go on like this for so long, stretched and twisted around the music in his head. He's been practicing already, for a while, has gone endearingly pink, defensive every time Brett caught him. Because that's the thing, Eddy's longing for this piece leaves no place for sincerity. He pretends worry and anxiety with certain fingers, muscle memory, with his eyes closed and ear leaned down to his violin, softly, like he might be in love. Brett isn't being lied to, because he doesn't need words to see this truth. It's only fair.

Eddy knows things about him, that Brett never told him.

The first time in quartet together, and Eddy didn't even blink when Brett offered to play second. All the times Brett didn't accept anyone else as first violin, when he'd chosen to do it himself, leading capabilities not yet sharp enough, not yet familiar, aggressive still. He's changed, his skin entirely new, but playing support to Eddy is the same. Satisfying outside competition.

Eddy's song changes, and he starts humming high-pitched annoying, his ass moves slower, left hip rotating a little. Brett buries half his face in his arms, up to his glasses, rubs his cheek on his sleeve just to feel it, his scruff catches in the fabric, it makes him shiver. If he doesn't pay attention his eyes focus involuntarily on his own veins, 28 years of green, winding across the back of his hand, something Eddy-shaped blurry in the background. They're growing old.

He's seen this before, images superimposed, but Eddy still does the dishes like he's performing. No gloves, offensive amounts of dish soap until everything's just bubbles, tinged blue, his sleeves pulled up, the line of his shoulders straight, stark contrast to the angle at which his neck bends. He's not-so-secretly afraid he'll drop something and cut himself on the broken pieces, it shows because his hands are tense, and his tongue is pushing on his teeth, if Brett were to see his face. Not so many plates to work through, but he takes his time scrubbing, skin turning pink from heat, he reaches all the way to the bottom of the cups and glasses. Brett doesn't have a cleanliness issue, not bad enough that anyone would know.

And yet, Eddy's house is always clean, viscerally so. It smells like him, but that's ok, because Eddy's clean too.

(Once, just once, Brett's sock got stuck to a spot in the hallway, nothing really to seep in and touch his skin, just a dried drop of bubble tea. Eddy freaked out worse than him, took one look at his face and sent Brett directly to the shower. Not that bad, with how he'd squeezed Brett wrist as he went past, to steady it.)

(Brett doesn't count that time after the Tchaikovsky, they'd both been wet with sweat, he can still feel the back of his head sticky and cold. It didn't smell like anything, not dry enough for that. Maybe of pride, and wonder, and yellow.)

He likes this. He's slept overnight in sheets that Eddy keeps for him only, ironed, that crinkle around him. The couch bears his imprint by now, he can take anything out of Eddy's closet, save undies maybe, his green cup is there in the sink, under soapy water. He could fall asleep here, and Eddy would poke at him, pick him up and half drag him back into the living room. His cheek squishes further into his upper arm, it makes his glasses rise up crooked. He feels liquid. Eddy's butt is swaying with unmatched passion, fuzzy as it is.

'Dude you alright there?' and Brett jumps like he's been burned, his feet come up spooked, he swears when Eddy starts laughing unrestrained. It gets louder progressively, until there's no sound at all, just his dumbass friend leaning heavily by the sink, violently flushed with giggles.

Brett groans, shakes his head, this goddamn pain in his ass, melts back down to the table just as Eddy's wiping tears, asking... asking things Brett can't possibly answer, what the hell. No, Eddy, your bum isn't fat, gross, it's too early for this crap.

'I'm gonna get you back. I'm gonna come in the middle of the night next time I'm over and you'll pee your bed.' It doesn't quite reach Eddy, not entirely, with how Brett mumbles into his forearms, but the feeling is clear.

It shouldn't be surprising, that he's splashed with water, a handful of it, hot for some reason. Brett gasps and freezes, shocked betrayal making him tense up, (he can't see, did Eddy just get dish soap on him mixed with-... with god knows what, pieces of food nonono) before he realizes it's just water, clean water, directly from the tap. Fuck. There's some near his hairline, he wipes at it with the back of his hand.

Eddy doesn't coddle him, never has, just throws him the paper roll and finishes up, headphones around his neck with the volume high enough that he still hears. Brett settles, just like that, he'll dry in a bit. They'll film the promise for the livestream, mixed in sightreading on the viola Eddy gave him.

Some things Brett knows without Eddy ever telling him.

'Your ass is fat. There, happy now?' and Eddy looks back at him with that crooked grin he reserves for when Brett fucks up on stage. As he plays Tchaikovsky for 40.000 people.

(He thinks, image sacrilegious in his head, half delirious, that when Eddy touched a violin for the first time, Sibelius must have been there. Dead and haunting, he must've smacked Eddy on the forehead to declare him his, to a sulky Debussy-shaped ghost in the corner. Brett needs sleep, god.)

It's an afterthought to slap Eddy's ass on his way back to bed. He gets hip-checked hard enough that he giggles, melts down against the cupboard under the sink, and Brett hooks his arm behind Eddy's knee. For support.

Chapter Text

Brett doesn't do well with hurt that comes from the outside. There's something steadfast in him, like roots to the ground below, that will not break. He hurts, now and again, brittle, red over his teeth, but he doesn't wallow and he doesn't keep. Eddy breathes, a little stilted, a little scratchy, tries to take in sun, the wet of the grass under his hands. The sprinkler keeps turning, it waters him again, down to his middle. Strands of hair over his forehead, sticky wet, cold.

Somewhere between maths tutoring and bubble tea, someone must've decided Eddy can cry enough for two people.

A jackass of kid is pointing at him as he goes past holding his mum's hand, and Eddy would care, really, if he had any more energy than for closing his eyes and turning his cheek to the ground. He wishes Brett stopped trying, just came to pick him up already before he turns to photosynthesis. It's been hours of this, but Eddy's body doesn't feel any less foreign, or his mind less invasive inside itself. It waits sharp for footsteps it knows.

Brett likes running. And tennis, and swimming. Anything that takes him outside his head for a while, that lets him be aware of his heartbeat, to his fingertips, just veins and arteries shaping lungs, and a spine, and legs to carry him, until he can taste blood in his mouth to drown out everything else. Coda. He's explained it once to Eddy, dismissive and embarrassed, long after he'd given up attempting to fix Eddy's spells of strangeness.

It's nothing earth shattering right now, Eddy's too young for that maybe, but Brett is shit at comfort, when he only knows anger to work through and not hurt that slashes. Water sprays him again, and his chest dips on sobbing that refuses to come out. He'd be ashamed with the number of people passing by this wet patch of ground where he's spread out becoming mud, but at least he knows he's done his share of crying already, and he's safe here, soul half severed from his body. It's love that deserves mourning.

Eddy's breathing evens once there's controlled panting and sweaty heat just to his left blocking out sunlight. Brett's hand hovers for a bit, then settles over his closed eyes, too tight, it brushes against Eddy's eyelashes, slides up into his hair pushing it away from his forehead, thumb tracing the outline of his eyebrow. Eddy looks up in time to see him curse and trip over himself as he hurries to get up to his feet and outside the range of the sprinkler. Water follows seconds later on Eddy's face, on his teeth because he'd been smiling a little.

'Dude you're drenched. Want me to come sit with you?'

Eddy's almost tempted to say yes, to have Brett's shoulder at his side, and his mouth running about technique, about how he'll make concertmaster, about how Eddy should go for it too now that he can focus, two idiots laying down in the dirt, in the middle of the park, crisp smell of blue and green. But he's had a few good years of watching Brett wash his hands twice before he practices, and Eddy's miserable, not mean. It breaks what's left of his heart, that he's scaring his best friend like this, to the point he'd offer in the first place.

'Nah, I'm coming out. I'm done.'

'Yeah? I only did seven laps though? Not so in love as you thought you were then?' and fuck, fuck, but Eddy had been. Is, still. It feels like his strings get cut, honey memory of her voice tearing strips of flesh from his arms, and he goes back down splashing water.

Brett's hands clasp his tight, immediately urgent - 'sorry sorry shit, of course you were, I'm sorry' - and he's yanked forward and up. Brett's strength is unassuming, he doesn't look like it, but it makes Eddy's body behave and follow without hesitation, steady leverage, until he's looking down to Brett, the top of his head, and then into his face. Eddy knows what's next by the flighty carefulness in the white of his eyes, has been wanting, wishes he'd be cleaner for this. Maybe Brett won't. Eddy sighs before the contact comes.

Brett's hug feels feral, broken bones sticking through the skin. Eddy doesn't need to breathe anymore, doesn't have to think about this. His arms get pinned to his sides, but that's alright, there's no expectation that he should move with how Brett is squeezing him, no give at all, solid and hard and safe, hands open at his back, between his shoulder blades. Undemanding.

Eddy props his cheek on the side of Brett’s head and baby hairs catch on his chapped mouth. Would-be-gross, if Brett didn't smell like lavender shampoo.

But he does, and he's dry, and he's flushed from running. His body is all wrong, too short, too wide, chest flat, but it's familiar, come here, steady now, breathe, not too wrong after all. Eddy feels him counting seconds, because they hug, but not like this, not when Eddy's filthy, not when he's cut on longing. Brett is bad at this. He still pushes back against Eddy's cheek, nudging, still says 'you can ask for stuff, you know, whatever you need, I'm not-... uh, not that she wouldn't...ugh, fuck, it's just me, not anyone else.' Water seeps in from chest to chest, and Eddy leans into his embrace until he's shut up embarrassed.

Hiding in Brett's shoulder is good. Filtered sunlight and humid warmth. Eddy can see his own eyelashes, in-between slow blinks.

Brett doesn't even squirm. He stops chewing on the inside of his lower lip and Eddy feels like every expansion of his rib cage chases after careful fingertips (different, bigger, pressing harder without nails) attempting to smooth out the curve of his spine. She was as tall as Eddy in a hug, fitting right to him, hip to hip and giggles licking at the corner of his mouth. Eddy thinks that if he ever has to hug her again, he'd like to forget as soon as he lets go of her hand.

Water sprays by Eddy's ankles and he yelps high-pitched, enough to make Brett jab him in the ribs, drag him back to the alleyway. He takes off his jacket as he walks, struggles some, pushes it into Eddy's hands. It's too short on Eddy, but loose enough that he can pull at the sleeves to hide the back of his hands. He wipes at his running nose just to see if he'd get scolded. Brett shoves his fist in the pocket on his side as soon as Eddy pulls the hood over his head, and Eddy's chest lights up orange. He's not ashamed at needing physical affection, but Brett's idea of it makes him wonder when he's gone boring. It's a tight fit, both their hands inside, and Eddy feels better maybe so he slips his fingers between Brett's.

'Gross, you're terrible.'

'Thanks, come closer, I'm cold. Be a better boyfriend, hey?' and he does, his shoulder bumping Eddy's upper arm on every third step. Whatever you need. Sweaty hands, the way she wiped them on her thighs, afraid of showing nervousness.

'It sucks that you can't even be angry with her.'

'I can't, I wouldn't anyway. For choosing studying over me, are you kidding me?'

'No, I meant, if she was a horrible person.'

'Dude.' Eddy rubs at his face, tired, so fucking tired, of staring at his ceiling all night, of wanting to feel more than these needle-sized holes all over him bleeding want. She's so far away now, and he wants to call her all the time.

'I'm sorry dude. Why not wait for each other though? You would, it's who you are.'

He can't make up his mind if he feels offended or touched, but what Brett's saying isn't wrong. He would, for her, god, for her anything. He loves her, he'll love her for a while still.

He tries pulling up images of them after uni, variations of her, older, crinkles deeper at the corner of her eyes. It works, until he figures he can't see everything, details blurring if he doesn't focus. It's harder adding himself by her side.

'We're 21. For fuck's sake.' He remembers her body, her hands on his neck, the smell of her hair. Clearly, gutting.

Brett asks 'So? What does it matter at all?' and Eddy has to stop dumbstruck, Brett's hand slipping from his, coming out of the pocket. What does it matter. He can't imagine what she'll look like a year from now.

If he were honest.

If he were honest to himself, he'd known from the start. From the first time she'd curled her arm around his ribs with the intent to tickle, and had kissed him so she could steal his screams directly from his mouth, he'd thought he needs to pay attention because it wouldn't last. He loves her still. Not meant for him to keep. Brett is waiting for him, crease under his lower lip giving away that he would like to be angry with her at least, if Eddy won't. Eddy knows how Brett will look in a year, because they've been through this before, and he always looks stupid anyway.

Somewhere between winning over Eddy in competition and making him tune both violins, Brett must've grown roots to steady two people.

'Dude, come on, I'm cold just looking at you' and Brett comes to him to zip up his jacket. Eddy doesn't tell him it's already soaked through, but he goes easy when Brett tugs at his sleeve.

Now that he's thought about it, he can't stop. Brett keeps looking back at him over his shoulder, frustrated worry and clumsily eaten words. Eddy isn't sure whether eight years of annoying each other, intently and not, justify this iron certainty in his chest, that where Brett goes, he'll follow, that he trusts Brett to do the same.

Eddy realizes it'd be better to tell him before he's actually driving. So Eddy opens the door of the car, but doesn't get in, props his elbows on the roof of it and waits for Brett to follow. He does, of course he does, even though his eyebrows draw together, tired of this all-consuming babying.

Eddy doesn't want to end up alone. So he asks.

'What you say, if we're getting old, like, embarrassingly so, and we still haven't found anyone?'

'You gonna proposition me right now? That's fine, but if you are, at least don't use that shit let's-get-married-when-we-hit-30 thing.'

'It's supposed to be 40 actually, but I like 30 better.'

'Bro I'm not fucking you because I turn 30' and he rolls his eyes, leans away from the car, exasperated, comes back because Eddy's not done yet.

'Brett. I'm serious, we don't have to do that, just-'

'I know, I get it ughh.' He's pulling at his hair, the other hand digging into his cheek and Eddy almost feels bad, but Brett is considering it carefully now. His promise isn't light.

'It's not that different. Move in together, help each other out, practice. Maybe hug me more.'

'We could do that now just as well.'

'And walk in on you bedding half the con? Pass.' Brett gaps at him, like maybe that didn't just come out of Eddy's mouth, and they break out in soundless wheezing, trickling down into the car.

Eddy fishes a towel from the backseat, perfectly certain it would be there, Brett knows him, and he rubs at his wet hair to push down the instinct to shake himself dry. It takes a while, because he isn't ready to face his best friend after that, when he keeps quiet. Or not so quiet after all, there's sudden sniffling, and sounds that Brett can't swallow down, and oh no what the hell, he's crying.

'Yeah ok man, let's. 1st of March today, we're becoming wives nine years from now. Your mum's gonna break my knees.' Shaky and raspy, as if he's been crying for longer than just now.

Brett doesn't look at him. His fingers crack as he's pulling on them, twisting something vicious.

'Uh, wives?' and Brett snorts, head lolling back against the headrest, tears coming harder, spilling into his ear with the change in angle.

'Right, sorry, husbands.'

(And Eddy could reach over to pull him closer, into his chest, to tell him it's alright to cry here, and Brett would admit getting dumped sucks, but sucks worse when it happens to the both of them at the same time. He wishes he was above this, wishes fucking half the con came easier to him than this slow breaking of bones.)

Eddy sneaks one hand upturned, open on Brett's thigh, if you want.

'Promise? For real?' He's still drenched, but the car feels like a glasshouse, hot already, it makes him tired, he can't breathe through Brett's crying. It sounds whiny even to his ears, but it's nothing Brett hasn't heard from him before, and he says 'yeah, promise' with fondness that chokes Eddy up a little.

(And Eddy could ask, what's happened and why, and Brett would cry harder, would pull his knees up, closing in on himself because he doesn't fucking know how to split his touch between wanting someone and his violin, soloist written purple over his heart, scarring his lungs white.)

Brett wipes at his cheeks after a while, the span of a few quiet sobs, a little vengeful, he turns his whole body to Eddy, takes his hand softly, thumb tracing veins to calm himself down. His glasses mist over at the edges.

'Do you ever feel like I'm ignoring you? Because I practice?' It's so random that Eddy's hit from the side, he has to blink quickly to refocus. Of course Brett practices, what the hell, that's the point.

'No? It's what you do. Wouldn't be right if you didn't.'

'Yeah, that's what I thought as well' and he breaks up in a grin so wide and wet, Eddy wonders why the hell he asked in the first place. Practice is Brett's first love, Eddy wouldn't dare challenge that. It's enough that Brett hugs him, and holds his hand, even if he's not especially inclined to it, just because he knows Eddy likes it.

'What's that about though, are you alright?'

(And Eddy could push, because hurting together is easier than hurting on his own, and Brett would be cornered enough that he'd bite Eddy on the shoulder, the way he does when he's exceptionally frustrated.)

'Yeah, I'm good now. Kinda want to bite you so you'd stop mopping. I know you need this because you feel you owe her, but I care about you more than I care about her.' Rambling, which means he's embarrassed, Eddy's nice enough not to point it out. 'Pick yourself up, dude' said like there aren't tear tracks still wet all over his face.

Brett hates driving, but he does it well, some sort of stubbornness. Eddy's warm now, and the humidity on him makes him sweat. Brett doesn't mind when he takes his shoes off, but shoots him pointy looks once Eddy's toes wiggle their way under his thigh.

(Eddy can feel it in his bones, if someone's meant for him. He loves whole-bodied, even when he's certain he'll be left to hurt in their wake. He waits, and waits, and Brett becomes proficient in putting him back together. It must have happened before, if he knows how this goes. Once is enough.)

Eddy falls asleep before Brett's tears dry.