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New York City is frigid.
It’s not as cold as Brett knows it can get, but the wind licks at his ears in a way that threatens to bite them off. He has half a mind to turn tail then and there, right outside the rotating glass doors he’s just emerged from, but then he considers another hour spent tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, and decides hypothermia is preferable to counting any more sheep. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and steps out onto the sidewalk. Maybe he’ll go see the Rockefeller tree.
The melting snow on the pavement isn’t pretty—it’s grey, mixed with layers upon layers of dirt and grime and gum and whatever has graced the soles of the multitudes of hustling New Yorkers before him. Brett has to tug his soaking shoes out of the two-inch thick sludge with every step, wiggling his toes every so often to make sure there’s still feeling in them.
There’s a somewhat comforting press of pedestrians on all sides of him, each of them walking faster than he would dare. He’s already lost his footing twice—he’s sure the only reason he hasn’t fallen over yet is the wall of strangers bracketing him in every direction.
It starts raining when he’s halfway across the street, stranded between his hotel and Rockefeller Centre.
He swears. Screw the tree.
Brett ducks his head down and walks faster, spotting an inconspicuous bar across the road. The light in its windows is pale and dim, almost imperceptible against the bright neon Christmas decorations surrounding it on all sides. It’s a miracle he manages to see it at all.
The door swings inwards, and the warmth hits Brett squarely in the chest. He unwinds his scarf from his neck, fumbles off his gloves and stuffs them into his pockets. He stomps off the gruel clinging to the soles of his wet shoes, shrugging off his winter coat at the same time. He’s just managed to hang it up when a stranger collides solidly into him, flinging their arms around his neck.
“Babe! You’re here! You finally made it.”
Brett blinks. It’s not a stranger. He knows that voice.
The man pulls back and Brett finds himself face-to-face with a person he once thought he would never live without. He briefly wonders if he’s stepped back in time.
Brett hasn’t seen Eddy Chen in nine years.
And yet—Brett can still read him as easily as when they were twenty-one and twenty.
There’s desperation rolling off Eddy in waves, the tension in the arms still resting on his shoulders, and, loudest of all, the distressed plea in his wild eyes to please figure it out please go along with this please help me please please please—
Brett casts a look over Eddy’s shoulder, sees the cherry-lipped, kohl-eyed brunette frowning behind him, and, to Eddy’s laughably obvious relief, gets it.
He slides an arm around Eddy’s waist, and it’s been nine years, it shouldn't feel natural, it shouldn’t feel right, but Eddy still relaxes into his side at his touch, leaning slightly into him as they make their way to the girl sitting at the bar counter.
“Hey baby,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I’m late.” The apology is an act, but for some inscrutable reason it feels like a confession.
Eddy clears his throat. “Brett, this is Lavey; Lavey, my boyfriend Brett.” There’s an infinitesimal pause between the words “my” and “boyfriend”, but Lavey probably hasn’t known Eddy as long as Brett has, and probably doesn’t notice.
Pressed this close into Eddy’s side, Brett can feel the stiffness of every pearl in the curve of Eddy’s spine. Clearly no one in the past nine years has put in the same amount of effort that Brett used to do, trying to correct his atrocious slouch. Terrible posture notwithstanding, Eddy holds himself differently from how Brett remembers when they were in uni, chin up a little higher with a confidence that didn’t used to be there before.
Lavey doesn’t say a word, only drags her sharp gaze slowly from Eddy’s face to Brett’s, then down to where Brett’s hand has moved to hold Eddy’s, thumb unconsciously drawing small concentric circles on the back of his wrist. Brett has the distinct feeling he’s being pinned down and dissected by a cat.
“Hmm,” she says. Brett can hear Eddy vibrating with nervous energy beside him. He wants to squeeze his hand comfortingly, but he isn’t entirely sure she hasn’t seen through their ruse either. He suspects he can’t read her as well as she’s reading them.
Finally she drawls, “Merry Christmas then, Brett and Eddy,” and picks up her coat. Eddy releases an extremely obvious breath of relief. Brett stamps on his foot. Lavey makes for the door, taking her time, sure with the confidence of the world, and the knowledge of her place in it.
Brett doesn’t let go of Eddy’s hand even as the door swings shut behind her, silently squashing down the flare of something unspeakable sparking low in his throat. Nine years should have been enough time for Brett and Eddy to stop sounding so fucking right.
It’s only after Lavey’s silhouette disappears from the frosted glass window of the bar that Eddy slumps onto her deserted stool, finally releasing him. He buries his face in both his hands, his fingers naturally slotting themselves under the frame of his glasses. Brett tries not to feel too bereft, choosing instead to slide onto the stool beside him, gesturing at the bartender for two drinks. He still remembers Eddy’s favourite; he hopes it hasn’t changed.
“When did you start wearing glasses?” he starts conversationally.
Eddy’s hands drag down his face slightly, fingertips now resting on the soft skin under his eyes. “Two years ago,” he replies, mortification dripping from every syllable. Brett tries not to laugh.
“They look good on you.”
“Thanks.” Eddy’s eyes disappear behind his hands again.
Brett bites his lip to keep from smiling. “We’re just gonna pretend that the past ten minutes didn’t just happen?”
“That would be preferable, hey.”
Brett snorts. “You were a lot bolder five minutes ago. Now you can’t even look me in the eye?”
Half of Eddy’s face emerges again, pained. “I’m a good actor when I’m desperate,” he says.
Brett rolls his eyes, reaching for Eddy’s wrists. “Come on Eddy.”
Eddy groans and pouts, but allows his hands to be tugged away from his face.
“That’s better,” Brett declares, smiling.
The bartender sets the two drinks in front of Brett; he slides the Fizzy Apple across the counter to his miserable-looking ex-boyfriend.
Said miserable-looking ex-boyfriend stares into the drink for a few moments before meeting Brett’s eyes at last. “You still remember?”
Brett rolls his eyes. “I know it’s been nine years, Eddy, but we did date for three years, and before that I was your best friend. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it actually is.”
This, ultimately, is what coaxes a laugh out of Eddy. “You always had the sweetest things to say.”
“Yeah? And you’ve always had a sweet tooth. Now shut up and drink your alcohol.”
Eddy does, but not before dissolving into another round of spirited laughter while Brett hides his smiles in his drink.
For a moment, this scene is unbearably familiar, and Brett feels unbearably fond.
“So,” Eddy says, once he’s done lamenting how long it’s been since he’s had a Fizzy Apple. Brett doesn’t ask why. It’s probably because they’re pretty hard to find outside of Australia, anyway. “Why are you alone in New York City on Christmas Eve?”
Brett raises an eyebrow at him.
“Humour me and ignore the irony.”
“Officially? Work. I performed a heart bypass surgery yesterday.”
Eddy sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Major surgery just before Christmas? Would not like to be that guy. What’s the story?”
“Chronic heart pain, stubborn father refusing to go in for a check-up for ages, but he finally caved as an early Christmas present for his granddaughter. Turns out, it’s unstable angina and I’m called in during the holiday season.”
“They called you all the way in from Australia? Damn, you must be pretty good then.”
Brett snorts. “Yeah, nah. Just the only cardiac surgeon willing to work this close to Christmas.”
Eddy considers this. “Well, the surgery was yesterday though. You could have flown back in time if you wanted to.”
Brett screws up his face in disgust. “Flights before Christmas are bloody expensive.”
Eddy snickers. “Good to know successful Asian doctors are still as Asian as the rest of us.”
Brett scoffs with derision, knocking back his drink. “Who said I was successful?”
When he lowers his glass from his face, Eddy is looking at him with an abhorred mix of sympathy and apology on his face.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking so loud, I could hear it from all the way over here.”
Eddy bites the inside of his cheek. Brett braces himself. Eddy always did that before he said something he knew Brett wouldn't like.
“He didn’t make it?”
Brett sets down his drink and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He hopes his sullen silence is enough for Eddy to stop pushing.
“Okay,” Eddy says, and Brett remembers exactly how and why he fell in love. Interestingly, he can’t at all recall why or when he fell out of love.
Eddy’s gaze is fixed on a point somewhere above his left elbow and Brett is suddenly struck with a memory so vivid and clear: Eddy in his last year of uni, meeting him for a shitty cup of coffee at their least favourite cafe.
Brett chose it for a reason: he’d always been a firm believer that bad memories should only be associated with his most hated food. If they’d gone out for bubble tea (less ice, half sugar) he’d never be able to enjoy it again without the memory of breaking up with his best friend resurfacing: Eddy, too perceptive, too clever to not see it coming, bright eyes dimming to a dull brown, a small, sad smile—still sweet—spreading slowly across his face like a broken jar of honey.
That wasn’t the last time he saw Eddy, far from it: he bumped into Eddy at their favourite bubble tea shop (less ice, half sugar), met his eyes on the stage of his recitals from the crowd of the audience, and on one particularly memorable occasion, had him in the ER during the shift he was working as an intern, to fix a broken wrist.
It ended amicably—they were friends first and would always be—and that didn’t make it hurt any more, or less.
Even as he did his best to push thoughts of Eddy from consuming his every waking moment, Eddy still tended to appear whenever he was least expecting it. The resolutely dry-eyed eight-year-old who, when asked to rate his pain, called a ten a nine, had Eddy’s bright, determined eyes; the shy med student who kept her head down when she worked and held it high when she was spoken down to, had Eddy’s easy, heart-on-his-sleeve smile; the violinist staring at what remained of her right hand after her surgery sobbed into his sleeve the exact same way Eddy did.
Only after Eddy didn’t show up at the airport to see him off when he left Australia, did he finally stop turning up randomly in Brett’s life. Brett still heard his music though, even if he stopped following his career.
“How’s the music going?” Brett says, the thought occurring to him suddenly.
Eddy looks up from where he’s tracing patterns on the wooden counter with the condensation from his glass. “Huh?”
Brett frowns at him. “Um, remember how you did that super insane thing: dropping out of med school to major in violin and composition?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well I uh, haven’t written anything in a while, but um, I’m playing the Sibelius Violin Concerto with the New York Philharmonic next week.”
Brett’s eyes widen. “You’re the soloist?”
“Well don’t sound so surprised,” Eddy says, mildly disgruntled.
“No no,” Brett says quickly, “I’m just— You made it. You’ve accomplished your lifelong dream. I’m happy for you.”
Eddy averts his eyes downwards, smiling meekly. Brett has none of it. He nudges Eddy gently with his elbow. “I mean it. I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks Brett,” Eddy says, and there’s a warmth in the way his voice wraps around his name that makes Brett forget that they haven’t spoken at all in nine years.
“Do you still play the violin?” Eddy asks, after they’ve both gotten their second refill of the night.
“Not really,” Brett replies apologetically. “But I don't think I’ve forgotten how.”
Brett hasn’t touched his violin in nine years, but somehow, with Eddy, he thinks he could perform a whole concerto from memory.
“Any piece you think you still know how to play?”
The answer is easy, it comes to Brett so immediately and naturally he doesn’t even need to think. “Do you remember,” he starts, staring down at his hands in his lap, “the day you graduated high school, the piece you composed yourself and performed for the whole school?”
“The piece I composed for you,” Eddy finishes.
Brett nods.“If I could remember any piece, it would be that one.”
Eddy fixes his eyes on Brett’s and all Brett can notice is that his eyes are bright, so bright.
“You still remember?” Eddy says again for the second time that night and Brett can’t find it in himself to lie.
“Eddy, I remember every piece of music you ever composed for me. It was important to you, and you were important to me.”
“Oh,” Eddy says, and inside Brett wells so much affection for this stupid man and he forces himself to look away before he does something impulsive.
He takes a large gulp of his drink.
“And unofficially?” Eddy says, completely out of the blue.
Brett startles a little. “What?”
“You said that officially, you’re in New York for work. Unofficially?”
Brett rewinds the conversation in his head, then turns Eddy’s question over, choosing his words carefully. “I— I wanted— I needed to be alone for a bit.”
“Twenty hours is a long way to fly just to be alone,” Eddy says lightly.
Brett sighs. “I think— I think I’m looking for something. I just don’t know what. What about you? Your concert isn’t until next week.” he says, nudging Eddy’s foot with his. “What are you doing this far from home during Christmas?”
Eddy inhales deeply, drawing his shoulders up and drumming his fingers on the counter in front of his glass. “The easy answer is: writer’s block. I needed to be— away from home. Figure some stuff out on my own. The difficult answer is: I don’t know.” He sighs. “Mum wasn’t too happy when I said I wasn’t going to be with family for Christmas but she let me be. But she didn’t really get it.”
“Hmm.” is all Brett says, because he doesn’t think there are enough words in the world to express how much he does get it.
Brett casts a wide sweeping look over the gradually emptying bar, suddenly feeling a lot less alone. He turns back to Eddy. “Hey. D’you wanna get out of here?”
Eddy blinks at him and Brett finds himself about to open his mouth to reassure him that it isn’t a proposition. Eddy beats him to it.
“Sure.”
Their fingers brush and tangle loosely as they walk out the bar, and Brett dares himself to believe it isn’t a dream.
“Where are we going?” Eddy asks, once they’re outside the bar.
To be honest, Brett has no clue. All he knows is that his face is freezing and he most definitely wants to be back somewhere warm. “It’s still early enough to see the tree,” he says instead.
Hearing no objections or other suggestions from Eddy, Brett links his hand through his and pulls him into the throng of the crowd.
Eddy doesn’t protest, allowing Brett to drag him through the unfamiliar streets of New York City. They both stumble—three, four times—but catch themselves and each other, laughing.
Miraculously, they make it to Rockefeller Centre in one piece, cackling with crazed laughter and trying to pull themselves upright into a standing position.
There’s still a few minutes to midnight, so the tree is lit, dazzling lights reflected in both their faces.
Brett turns, fixing his gaze on the side of Eddy’s face, the curve of his jaw. At once, Brett is thoroughly sure he’s found what he’s been looking for.
“Eddy,” he says, and Brett’s missing piece turns to face him.
Backlit by the twinkling, colourful lights of the Christmas tree, Eddy’s features are hard to read. Brett takes a step forward.
“Have you ever,” Brett starts, and Eddy’s bright eyes—always, always so bright—lock on his. “Have you ever lost something, and spent so long searching for it, you forgot what you were looking for in the first place? Or that- Or that—”
“Or that you were looking for anything at all,” Eddy finishes for him, voice no louder than a whisper.
Brett leans closer. “Exactly.”
“Why- Why did we break up again?” Eddy stutters, breath hitching.
Brett closes the distance between them. “No idea.”
Brett kisses him, and it feels like finally completing a puzzle, if finding the last piece of a puzzle took the better part of a decade.
“Merry Christmas Eddy.”