Work Text:
So, the waves that used to calm your mind
Are crashing now in record time
Life boat's fading out to sea
You play your song, close your eyes
***
It’s just a prank, bro.
Let me put it nicely.
With all due respect, Brett Yang is not always an honest person.
Here is a list of examples to support my case.
The way you text in bed until 2 AM, but then shame me for having a chaotic sleep schedule. It’s like you are technically in bed, but actually looking for that chimerical human connection in the wee hours of the night. But because you actually ‘went to bed’, it doesn’t count, right?
The way you don’t give a shit about appearance, but still style up on par for the press calls and pose with oozing confidence at photoshoots. Preppy college look? Give me a break.
The way your Tchaikovsky has grown up with you. You think you are good at it because you learned the concerto once by heart with your teacher. But is there really anything of that Tchaikovsky left? Hasn’t it gotten replaced by the imprints of your own experiences, reinvented by every newer version of you that attempted it?
How your face fully relaxes, except for the slightly tight eyebrows, losing any and all camera-ready angles, the moment the camera is switched off. Would you look at that, photographers and visual artists. If you never caught a speck of that star fever, were you even a youtuber? Is golden button just a paper weight for you?
The way you have warmed up to my techno playlists and even begrudgingly make specific requests. You might not even know you make them, among all the whining and snark. When simple chords communicating simple messages is what you need after weeks of trying to pin down a ruthless classical piece. Gonna expose you one day.
The way you avoid PDA, but don’t mind getting matching stuff with me. It’s unspoken, but not unwelcome for you? Maybe you don’t even see those items as ‘matching’. You just don’t mind having the same stuff. Identical. And the pile keeps growing. The number of times I grabbed the wrong watches, I swear to god.
The way you often needlessly say “me too”, when I point out how bad at something I am. Eager to put yourself down. Cancel yourself - yourself. Do you think you have to be twinning with me on this too? Goddammit.
***
But in this – in this you are honest. There is no prank.
How the corners of your mouth curl up by themselves when you have eaten something sweet. Bonus dimples if it’s a piece you stole from my plate.
How you always vibe along a social situation, all smiles and charm and smooth mingling. Some will call this people-pleasing. I think, you just enjoy feeding off people’s energy and giving it back.
The way your Bach sounds in the morning, when you haven’t warmed up yet. The way it sounds after you have binged a handful of amazing recordings. The Andante, your piece, when you need a little pick-me-up in your musical confidence. How you use it to recalibrate yourself across multiple timezones / situations / moods.
How you become quiet and get a dreamy expression on your face when our friends start talking about the daily shenanigans of their jobs or family life during our monthly meet-ups. Or how you light up when a funny message pops up in our Brisbane gang group chat.
The way you have a very fine-tuned moral compass with zero tolerance of unfairness. Numerous friends tend to come to you for advice. And you always navigate the situation from perspective of a bigger person. How much measure of a man do you have in that compact body of yours?
How you document life on social media, in the most listless, unpretentious way. I let you do your thing. Won’t risk affecting the emotional barometer. It’s like a fakeness test that you pass every time. All those books on being successful and growing social media following. And here you are being sincere. What a fool.
How you take life blows with grace. The way you used to be a positive, stable, ‘ok’ guy, able to take any situation with a good amount of healthy sarcasm and move on. Until you suddenly weren’t. The time and all the earnest effort it took to find your footing again, rediscover your motivation and goals.
The serious romantic that you are. While some may think of music as their career, you are always bringing it back to the core. “Emotional bucket.” Sure. Who the hell measures emotions in buckets? Still, no amount of reality checks of formal education, professional career or youtube grinder managed to shake that.
***
And then, there are things, on which I can’t be impartial judge.
I don’t want to be one.
Honesty? Spare me.
Like, no matter how abrasive your teasing remarks are, they are always softened by the warmest tiny smirk inside your eyes. Seriously, you should stop doing that before I get too cocky.
The way you are ready to shoulder the blame. No matter how fake your angelic reputation is, you will eagerly use it to redirect the hate from me to yourself. Always away from me.
The way you manage to calm my overachieving personality. Was psychology course a part of the curriculum at the con that I missed? You never stop reassuring me of the world’s acceptance. And maybe, just maybe, there are moments in time, during which I feel like I can believe it.
The done, half-lidded “come ooon” look, accompanied by a side-turn of the head. A common reaction to oh-so-many annoying attitudes of mine. How did they not drive you away yet? Immediately followed by a grin with the softest tell-telling eye creases. Tell me?
How you don’t mind taking a backseat, giving me space to express myself in all crazy obnoxious ways to my heart’s content and letting me stick our label on it.
How your laughter starts quietly, just you making softest noises at the back of your throat, smiling from ear to ear. Before it turns into a hearty, infectious, hands-in-the-air, open-mouthed laughter, engaging everyone in the room. Even if it’s just the two of us, I’m not immune.
The way your hand softly slips into mine in one swift practiced motion and holds on tight. Elegantly avoiding long sleeves, mittens or jewelry, it always manages to fit just right. What a misuse of muscle memory for those talented hands.
How you don’t immediately reciprocate, but still cling on to me, when subjected to a sudden kiss attack. How your first instinct is to stay and let and take, and not to retrieve. How freely you give, give, give and let me take. Fascinating, isn’t it? I might just get hopelessly spoiled.
How you never complain when I leave red bite marks on your bottom lip, always on the right side, and even let me borrow your chapstick. I’d kiss it better. But the thing is, it never gets better after more kissing.
Your cheeks slowly getting more pink, expression growing more thoughtful, the longer our lips slide against each other. Is it bad enough it’s not that distracting? Is it good enough it provokes deep thought? You look bemused, pulling away for a short breath, something shimmering gently in the dark brown depth of your eyeballs.
“What'ch ya thinking?” you ask wonderingly, eyebrows slightly raised. It’s always the nuance in the eyebrows that fails your deadpan. So you fringe it up to the max.
Oops.
I realize I got caught.
Sorry, been busy cataloguing your every move. I blink twice.
You are half-sitting on my lap on the sofa, your arm around my neck. It’s a rare cool day in Singapore, so you are wearing an old black hoodie, sporting paw sleeves. Overstretched from the constant sleeve abuse. Couldn’t pull a more natural couch potato look if you tried. You buffoon.
“Nothing. Go on?” I reply, my voice coming out a bit croaky. Haven’t talked much in the past hour.
“On with what?” Gotta play dumb like your life depends on it. I get it.
Your bodyweight feels warm and nice against my stomach and legs. I want to tuck myself into you even closer, so I do. Because I can.
It’s a bit past 6 PM, the traffic noise coming from the open window becoming louder due to rush hour.
I pull you in again by the back of your neck, going in a bit more with my tongue. You reciprocate, keeping your eyes occasionally open.
Are you watching me, too? What do you deduce, sherlock? Do you see goosebumps on my forearms, have my pupils grown wider? Are you even noticing things like these? Do you care.
Red and orange rays of setting sun paint perfect rectangles on our floor and walls, reflecting off your glasses frames and stray hairs sticking up wildly from your fringe.
You kiss back, diligently exploring all corners of my mouth, fingerpads tracing feather light lines on my nape, twisting and plucking at small hairs there. Are you even doing it consciously? I doubt it.
“You need a haircut,” you mumble in a hushed voice, scratching my scalp gently. I get small tingles.
“Uhm,” I probably do. As do you. I’ll book it later for the both of us, alright? For god’s sake. You proceed to pat me on the top of the head.
You look kind of dazed today. I’m moving things along slowly, tracing my lips along the good spots on your neck. I’m tired too, okay?
So what, if we don’t comply with normal people’s workday schedule? We’re our own bosses. Isn’t that what we wanted?
I sit you in a more comfortable straddling position on my lap and start working on your jawline, earning soft gasps. The five o’clock shadow is there, scratching my nose. I don’t mind it, nuzzling, flaring my nostrils and forcing a high-pitched laugh out of you. You smell like nothing in particular, a mix of aftershave and cotton and shampoo and skin? May have made that up. It’s a good, familiar smell.
You are pliant, but not very adventurous in my arms, copying my advances. Are you sleepy? Our energy levels have been up and down lately.
Your phone beeps, so you momentarily pull away and reach for the back pocket, throwing it on the coffee table.
“Not even gonna check?” I tease.
“No.”
“Check it.”
“Nah.”
“Weren’t you waiting that agency’s confirmation since yesterday?”
“Over it,” you glance sourly in the direction of the phone.
You hypocrite. I can see you kind of want to check. But maybe you are comfortable in my lap. Or just can’t be bothered. You grab two fistfuls of my shirt and lean back into me, eyes closed, waiting, with an expression of a child, denied a candy.
What’s that you are waiting for?
I can’t with you.
I lied, actually, I can. So I’ll give you all that candy. And more.
***