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She’s a brave little thing. You don’t ever tell her that, because she might focus on little and thing and take them to definitively wrong conclusions, and you like your fingers attached to your hand just the way they are now, but you think it. You think it a lot. An unhealthy number of times, if you’re being honest with yourself.
It’s not the only thing you think about an unhealthy amount of times, but that’s not the point.
Since you think this, it’s only apparent to you and only you that the high-pitched shrieking echoing through your apartment sometimes isn’t actually from the woman living there, but from you.
Well, you’re shrieking right now, so that just proves it.
Spiders are cool, objectively speaking. They look cool, radioactive ones bite and make a guy or two into web-slinging superheroes, and they eat insect pests for breakfast (and lunch and dinner, you get the picture). They’re also, on your personal shit list, just a few rungs below mushrooms and fucking scum-of-the-earth cockroaches.
And oh, wonder of all wonders, there's one there before you right now, sitting prim and pretty on top of your violin like it's been waiting to inflict misery on you with its presence. Because it’s 11 AM, and you just dared to start practicing way too late. Hence the shrieking.
"What the fuck?" Brettany comes storming into the room as a whirlwind force of nature, eyes wild and hair askew. A pack of tapioca pearls remains unopened in her hand, like she’d been in the middle of cooking boba before dropping everything to rush to your aid, and it’s probably extremely sad that your heart leaps at the thought of you being somewhat above homemade bubble tea on her list, but then your heart was already racing anyway. "What’s happening? Is Paganini murdering you?”
“Nah, other way around actually,” you say to defend yourself, because really now. Nel cor più non mi sento? If Ziyu could do it, defeat the beast that is the piece and perform it, so could you. Even if it is taking far longer to vanquish than you expected. “It’s actually — that fucking thing.”
That thing remains stock-still and unrepentant on your beloved violin. Cheeky bastard.
She glances at it. “Okay, how?”
"I left the case open last night, fine, my bad. Can we do something about it, please? Now?” And yes, you know your voice is this close to the edge of weeping, but it’s your violin, for fuck’s sake.
"Idiot," Brettany says. She shakes her head, hovering over the case before she leans down, and wait. Wait a minute. She’s not about to just pick it up like it’s nothing, right? Right?
“Hey, hey, hey,” you start to say, your body caught in an awkward cross between a leap forward and a flinch backward. What if it bites? What if it’s radioactive and she turns into a web-slinging superhero and bids a solemn but determined goodbye to the music, to the YouTube channel, to TwoSet, and most importantly to —
“Don’t worry,” Brettany rolls her eyes. She swipes an empty glass at the base of the music stand, one you’ve been meaning to clean up after practicing, and grins up at you. “I got you.”
And oh.
She does, doesn’t she? Brave little thing.
Braver than you, certainly. Brave enough to take care of spiders and cockroaches around the apartment just because you asked. Brave enough to move in with her best friend in an entirely different city. Brave enough to turn away from becoming a soloist despite deserving every inch of stage she ever sets foot on. Brave enough to jump headfirst into the once-fragile cradle of a shared dream that has grown more and more with each passing day.
(Brave enough to choose you. To keep choosing you. Even if. Despite of.)
It’s a horrible, heart-flattening conclusion to absorb and process while watching your best friend lift a fucking spider off your instrument, of all things. You expect to think about it a lot. An unhealthy number of times, if you’re being honest with yourself.
With some intense maneuvering and the help of the glass, Brettany drops the spider onto the planter box outside their windowsill where it can hopefully live the rest of its life safely outside their living area. “Bye, you itsy-bitsy little shit. Say goodbye to it, Eddy.”
“Bye,” you say, a little overcome.
She nods. “Good boy. Okay, now go practice, I want to hear your progress later. Or, like, whatever the hell you meant by murdering Paganini.”
There’s nothing for it but to echo her words back: “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got you.”
Brettany smirks. And then, slowly but surely, her mouth gentles, serene and trusting. “You always do.”
And oh. You really do, don’t you?
You’ll be brave, someday. Braver than her, sometimes, if at all possible. Brave enough to work harder, strive further. Brave enough to reach for every inch of stage you can secure for her, for the both of you. Brave enough to take on the world and stand strong at her side.
(Brave enough to tell her you love her. To keep loving her. Even if. Despite of.)
But for now, you’re at least brave enough to wrap your arms around her and squeeze, brave enough to go in for a tickle and accept the playful punch that follows, brave enough to keep working on Nel cor più non mi sento until you get it just right and watch fondness crawl up onto your best friend’s face, all shy and itsy-bitsy but there.
Because you’ve got each other.
You always have.