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Bernard rubbed his eyes open at what felt like the crack of dawn. One quick glance at his alarm clock later, he found out it was closer to 8 in the morning, which meant that his wife and kids had just slid out the door. After almost 10 years living together, he was incredibly used to oversleeping, as his family’s morning routine rarely startled him, but something other than their sounds jolted him awake on that December morning. To the point that he couldn’t drift off again no matter how many times he rolled over in bed.
Grumbling, he sat up and eventually walked downstairs to get a cup of tea. Waking up ridiculously early would at least give him more time to get some work done, he thought.
He laughed softly at the scattered catalogues and mail on the kitchen counter, which left almost no room to prepare anything. It was another thing that Bernard was accustomed to, but this time it was slightly different. Because an envelope with unmistakable penmanship was sitting on top of the pile. He turned even more pale at the sight of his name and address written by who he thought– no, he knew had sent it to his house.
How the fuck did Brett get a hold of his information in the first place? And why did he bother to write a letter like they were still in the early 90s? Bernard thought it must have been easier to find his email at that point. He could imagine him pestering some agent or producer who was a friend of a friend to get it. He’s still such a drama queen, he mused, even whilst feeling incapable of reading it.
He stared at the envelope for what felt like hours, until the hand he was using to hold an empty mug started cramping. “Goddamnit”, he muttered, looking around until he found a kettle. He mechanically prepared the tea and drank it as fast as he could, even hurting his tongue a couple of times. But the idea of Brett reaching out for the first time since he left Suede burnt hell of a lot more.
Bernard tossed the cup in the sink and decidedly grabbed the letter, checking the back just to make sure that he wasn’t having a meltdown over nothing. And sure enough, his former friend’s name and address were there, too. Stalling won’t make this any better. He pursed his lips, like he would before getting an injection, and ripped the envelope unceremoniously to reveal a postcard of a sunset. Original.
As it turns out, Brett had written less than he expected, but the words still stung.
Bernard:
I realize that this is out of the blue, but I would like to see you in person, if you’re keen. I thought about giving you a call, but assumed you’d hang up (and I wouldn’t blame you). So, give me a ring if you’re at all interested, and know that I can take the hint if I don’t hear back.
Hope you and your family are doing well.
Brett
Next to his stupid name was the phone number that Bernard was summoned to call. And of course, he had more questions than answers after reading the message. The bastard doesn’t talk to him in nearly 10 years and makes sure to leave him curious enough that he’s forced to reply. And yet, poking his eyeballs out and having them for breakfast seemed like a better idea.
Bernard shut his eyes, attempting to avoid an imminent headache. He felt like he’d be fucked no matter what he decided to do. Not having Brett in his life had become manageable after about two years of constantly missing him and having the urge to kick him in the balls at the same time.
Actually, just before the millennium, he was quite content when he noticed that he only thought about him when interviewers asked about the split, and he was forced to relive the heartache for a quarter of a second before blurting out some biting response.
And although he was capable of being just as cold to Brett’s face, he wasn’t sure if it was the mature thing to do. Then again, sending Bernard a little note to test the waters felt like something a teenager would do, not a man that’s pushing 40.
I’m going to regret this.
Postcard still in hand, Bernard walked towards the kitchen phone, dialed the number, and waited. If I get his machine, I should bang my head against the wall until I pass out. That’s more reasonable than–
“Hello?”
Bernard swallowed. “Hey. It’s–”
“Bernard?”
A small pause. “Yeah. I just got your message”. Brett’s strained laugh encouraged him to be completely aloof. “You said to give you a ring so I’m doing that”.
Brett also took a moment to continue. “I wasn’t sure… I’m– It’s good to hear you”.
“Mmm” was the only coherent reply Bernard could come up with on the spot, because what else was he supposed to say to that. “So why do you want to see me?”
Brett sighed. “I don’t think I can tell you over the phone”.
“Okay…?”
“I promise I’m not being a prick, I just think it’s better face to face. I… feel like I owe you that much”. He sounded dead serious, but something in his voice still made Bernard feel like a child that is being bullied and doesn’t quite know it yet.
“There’s no need to be melodramatic”. Brett chuckled again, a little more heartily this time.
“Right. So… when’s a good time for you?”
I’m really going to fucking regret this.
Bernard rolled his eyes as he spoke. “I’ve got nothing scheduled now”.
Uneasy as ever, Brett rang Bernard’s doorbell about two hours later. While meeting him was his plan all along, seeing it come to fruition less than 48 hours after he left the post office, when he was absolutely convinced that messaging him wouldn’t lead to anything, was more than a little unexpected. But his former bandmate wasn’t one for predictability.
Thankfully, he was home alone when he got the call, because nobody –especially not his girlfriend– should’ve seen how jittery a brief talk with another grown man made him. Why was he behaving like this? Bernard didn’t use to make him nervous, quite the opposite: his presence was endlessly reassuring. Until it all went to shit, that was.
Brett was fully aware that, because they’d once been joined at the hip, an incredible amount of people believed that they were shagging backstage, and it was their public relationships that caused their falling out. Even after all of the books and oral histories and whatnot that painstakingly explained how much of a dick he’d been to Bernard, along with the rest of the band and their producer.
All of that being said, though, he couldn’t deny that for him, the experience was very similar to a romantic break-up. Therefore, being this tense before confronting him was more than justifiable. Right?
Bernard opened the door before Brett could give it any more thought.
“Come in”, the host said simply, turning around as soon as their eyes met, and hurrying back inside. The guest hung his head and stepped into the house, carefully closing the door behind him.
“Sit anywhere you’d like”, Bernard instructed from his own chair, as he leaned over the coffee table to grab his third cup of tea of the day. Brett instinctively chose the sofa on the opposite side of him, removing his coat when he sat. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you”.
Bernard scoffed. “If I didn’t know it was you, I’d think I mistakenly invited a fan over or something”.
The shock of being in the same place as him after all those years, all while marveling at his ability to appear young and mature all at once –he’d always envied his looks–, weren’t really helping Brett's manners. “Sorry. I’m trying to– I genuinely didn’t think you’d agree to do this”.
“Hmm. Maybe that’s why I did. To mess with your head”. Bernard wiggled his eyebrows for good measure.
Brett rolled his eyes, but that did manage to get a small smile out of him. “Then I’m sure you’re delighted that I’m shitting myself over here”.
“Not really. That sofa’s quite expensive, so I would prefer that you used the loo”.
They both chuckled. The knot in Brett’s stomach was finally loosening, so he gathered the courage to get to the point. But his furrowed brow alarmed Bernard enough to chime in.
“Can I say something else before you get all somber again?” Brett nodded, and Bernard looked exceptionally amused before declaring: “Your last few albums were shite”.
He froze again. “How…”
“How were they shite? Is that what you mean to ask?”
Brett softened slightly at his familiar defensiveness. “I mean… I didn’t expect you to listen to any of them”.
Bernard shrugged, focusing on swirling his tea as he explained. “Some of my mates grabbed copies at the time and suggested I checked ‘em out”.
After pondering for a minute or so, Brett straightened up and dared to defend himself a little bit. “I still like Coming Up. And the newer bits in the b-sides compilation”.
Bernard chuckled. “There’s highlights here and there, but the bulk of it is–”
“I get it. I’m not– I didn’t come over to debate you on whether Suede was better before or after you left. I think we can leave that to the press”.
“Then what are you here for?”
Brett’s right hand was holding his head for dear life when he tried to collect his thoughts yet again. He knew what it would sound like, and it had already been tough to let his guard down with people that he’d been less close to throughout his life than Bernard, so he felt that any reaction from him could break him into pieces.
The truth was that, despite spending about a decade avoiding each other, he cherished his time with him, the good and the bad, and so, he desperately wanted a clean slate. Not to work together or anything, but to be civil again. To lift the long awaited white flag.
He kept his gaze on his shoes as he began with the usual spiel, mostly because it was always embarrassing, but in no small regard because Bernard was on the other end this time. “Part of the program that I did– that I’m still going through to stay sober includes… erm… apologizing to those I hurt in the midst of my addiction”.
When Bernard realized what was happening, he set the cup down with more strength than necessary, trying and failing to come up with any sort of quip to stop him. His silence emboldened Brett to carry on, in his own words now that his intentions were clear.
“I’ve… thought about approaching you to patch things up since they told me this was an integral step of the process”. He finally looked at Bernard, and was surprised that nothing in his face indicated he wasn’t taking him seriously. Brett didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried.
“I wasn’t sure– actually, I was positive that my sorry attempt at a letter would go nowhere so… I’m afraid that I’m even less prepared to do this than ever before, so if I go silent for too long it’s only because I really can’t… I don’t want to fuck this up”, he confessed.
“Have you fucked up before?” Bernard inquired.
Brett reflected for a second. “Having psychology lingo to rely on only helps to some extent, so yeah. A couple conversations have gone off the rails, but nothing unsalvageable… It’s not like the other person thought I was an unforgivable monster or something”.
“That’s why I’m scarier, right?”
Bernard’s eyes were glossy, like they'd been almost every time they quarreled when they were younger. It always hurt to see how much it affected him, but now that there weren’t any drugs in his system numbing him to the point of indifference, Brett’s voice trembled when he spoke again.
“Do you still see me like that?”
“I don’t know. Because I don’t know you anymore”.
“Huh. At least we’ve got something in common”. Brett attempted a smile. Bernard didn’t return it. “Look–”
“I do wonder if there’s some ulterior motive to all this. Surely you can’t be here just out of the kindness of your gigantic heart. Do you need me to produce something now that I’ve proved to be useful in that area?”
Brett wanted to cry but the anti-anxiety meds wouldn’t let him.
“To be honest with you I haven’t written anything worth recording in ages. You said it yourself a minute ago. My only… agenda or whatever you want to call it is… undoing this”, he gestured to the space between them. “I don’t expect you to magically be my friend again, because it wouldn’t be fair to you. We both know that I treated you like shit. But believe it or not, you are still special to me. As a person and as an artist. And I… can live with the fact that I threw what we had away to preserve my ego, because it’s in the past and there’s nothing I can do about that. But why do we– I don’t see the point in being at each other’s throats forever”.
Bernard could feel his patience dripping away while he responded. “Of course I can’t be your friend again. Not like before, anyway. You did treat me like shit. But I don’t think that… just because you say that I’m grand and you admit that you were cruel to me– that’s not a fucking apology, is it? I know that you can’t undo what you’ve done, but your shrink must've taught you to say sorry properly. You’re paying them more than enough, no?” He was in tears by the time he stopped talking.
Brett started pacing around the room like a caged animal, beating himself over the fact that he upset him this much not even half an hour after walking into his home. He couldn’t just course-correct and say “sorry, by the way” now. Begging on his knees was cartoonish, to say the least. And he certainly couldn’t offer Bernard a hug without returning home with a black eye or two.
“You’re right. I didn’t own up to shit just then”.
“No, you didn’t”, Bernard stated dryly.
“I think I’ll just go”. Bernard stood up just as Brett attempted to exit, and managed to reach him before he got to the door.
“Am I so hideous when I cry that you can’t apologize to me in this state?”, he asked, looking him dead in the eye.
Brett bit his bottom lip, deciding not to address the insidious joke. “I didn’t plead my case right. So maybe it’s better if I stay out of your life”.
“If you really wanted to stay out of my life you wouldn’t have disturbed my peace by coming all the way over here. You came to say sorry. So why can’t you just do it?”
It took Brett a while to go back to the sofa, and after a moment of hesitation, Bernard sat next to him, expecting the worst but hoping for the best. It felt like 1994 all over again.
Brett fixed his eyes on the ceiling before starting over. “I’m… I really am sorry. I’m sorry that I wasn’t in your corner when you didn’t want to shoot that… awful movie. Or when instead of supporting your vision for a track we all… ganged up on you… I’m sorry about all the times we left you alone when you were mourning your father’s passing… And when I would offer you drugs to take your mind off it. I’m sorry about all the… beautiful songs that you conceived of and I ruined with my ridiculous voice”. Bernard smiled despite himself.
“I’m sorry that I fumbled every chance you gave me to make these things up to you”, Brett paused for a moment before coming out with what he considered his greatest slight against him. “I’m sorry for being your friend only when it was convenient. You really are fucking amazing and I didn’t value that until you were long gone”.
For once, Bernard was speechless. The acknowledgement of all the damage that was done to his psyche was obviously much too late, but to hear it from the one person who had the power to stop the relentless abuse he went through and instead, stood and watched as it happened… It did give him a small taste of vindication, though significant enough that his urge to hurt him died down considerably.
“You’re a moron”, he laughed before hugging Brett’s boney frame, who initially short-circuited before holding him back. His memories were hazy, so he didn’t know if they’d done this before. For how affectionate they would act in public during their 20s, they weren’t particularly touchy, unless Bernard wanted to push his buttons by manhandling him excessively.
“How’d I do now?” Brett asked shyly, though feeling lighter already.
“Better. But sobriety has really cranked up your theatrics to eleven. Did you know that?” Bernard pulled away just to see his reaction.
“I guess so”, he wasn’t as embarrassed as he would’ve liked. His expression was rather charming, unfortunately. “I’m just rolling with the punches… and sometimes that means I blurt out a soliloquy for no good reason… Other times I struggle to string more than two words together. One of these days I’ll find a middle ground, I hope”.
“Me too”.
“Piss off”.
Bernard insisted on Brett having a cup of tea before he left, and he gave in this time. They also shared some biscuits while trying their best to make small talk, something neither of them were ever good at. An awkward silence ensued right before Bernard went to do the dishes, and he couldn’t not put an end to it.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think your voice ruined too many of my songs”, he yelled from the kitchen when he finished up, rolling down the sleeves of his jumper.
Brett laughed softly. “My, what a lovely thing to say. Thank you”.
Bernard grinned as he walked back to the living room. “I don’t even know which ones you’re referring to”, he probed before rejoining him on the sofa.
“Well… for instance… okay. I like what I wrote for The 2 of Us, but I think the recording doesn’t hold a candle to its potential”.
“Funny you mention that one, because it’s one of my favourites”.
Brett looked down. “Right”.
“I really like it! I think the album overall could sound better, and I said as much to you all… but I’m quite proud of that song”, he sincerely raved.
“What do you like about it, then?”
Bernard hadn’t heard it in a while so his review was admittedly scarce. “The lyrics are nice. And you made good use of your range so it’s more dynamic. Same thing with Still Life”.
“I’ll take it”, Brett shrugged.
“Of course you will! It’s a great song”, he patted his knee reassuringly.
“It is pretty good”.
“I’d argue me being the subject of it makes it great”, Bernard added flippantly.
Brett’s heart sank, as if some big secret he’d kept under lock and key was just exposed, when in reality, the meaning of the song was very cut and dry. And the timing of its release made it all the more evident to anyone paying attention to them. Bernard included. Ten other fucking songs on the album and that’s the one I bring up.
“What is it?” Bernard seemed concerned that he didn’t keep the ball rolling.
“It’s just–” Brett proceeded with caution, fully aware that this was dangerous territory. “We never talked about that, did we?”
Is he dim? “No, but I knew you better than anyone. And it’s not like you hid it very well”.
“Yeah, but… how did you take it? At the time, I mean”.
Now, that was a question that Bernard wasn’t ready to answer. “Huh. I suppose… I was flattered? And confused”.
“About what?” Brett turned his entire torso towards him, his infamous scowl in place. It occurred to Bernard that police interrogations were probably more comfortable than looking back on an extremely painful period with the one to blame for a large part of it.
“Because… I was finding out how you felt through a tape, and this was when we still spent some time together. At least in the studio. I thought… ‘since when are we in Fleetwood Mac?’”
“Sure”.
“And then, when I was sacked it made me mad, because it felt like you had warned me, but not to my face… But eventually I reveled in the fact that we were both somewhat miserable about it, so…” Bernard’s voice trailed off as he looked away.
Brett was gobsmacked. “Are you saying that just to rile me up or do you really think that was the point of the song?”
“That’s my interpretation, yes”, Bernard asserted spitefully, meeting his eyes again.
“Well, that’s not the full story”.
“Oh?” His incredulous tone made Brett shift awkwardly in his spot, as he frantically sought the right words.
“I was begging you to stay… It didn’t make sense to carry on without you, but it’s safe to say you had one foot out the door the whole time, for obvious reasons. You– your creativity was being smothered to death, especially by me. So that was my pathetic plea to you, though it was… clear that there was nothing I could say or do to stop you”.
“That’s not–”
“So of course it fell on deaf ears, since willingly or not, it was just a waiting game until you left, wasn’t it?”
After receiving the final master of the record, Bernard became so infuriated at the amount of his contributions that were scrapped, that whenever he came back to it years later, he’d rarely fixate on what Brett was singing. He’d never been obsessively analytic of his lyrics anyway –he was in charge of writing the music for a reason–, but this blind spot was hard to reconcile with. Especially if Brett’s explanation was earnest.
That isn’t what he said, though. “Fuck… We really are like a divorced couple”.
Visibly annoyed, Brett shoved him away and went to get up. “Fuck off”.
“Should we go to therapy together?” Bernard suggested in a mocking voice, tugging at the hem of Brett’s button down. He was promptly shoved again.
The slightest hint of a smile betrayed Brett’s sore act. “Buy me dinner first, baby”, he replied once he managed to get Bernard’s hand off his shirt, sitting back down.
“I would if you weren’t taken”, he pouted for dramatic effect.
“So are you, you twit!” They both laughed.
“So?”
For a minute, Brett’s grin died down, and Bernard could’ve sworn that he was actually contemplating the idea. But before he could tease him about it, he shook his head and stared at the floor. “Nevermind… You really know how to run a joke into the ground”.
“I love you too, Brett”, he retaliated, making him chuckle again. “I especially love you without the terrible dye job”. His former bandmate groaned in disgust at the memory, even turning a little red. “Did you do it on a dare?”
“I said, fuck off!”
After laughing some more at his expense, Bernard blurted out a question that probably should’ve remained in his brain. “Ever thought of growing your hair out again? Like me?”
Brett studied his hairstyle for a minute. The bangs are a nice touch. How does he look perpetually 23? “Sometimes… but no”.
“No?”
He frowned. “It would just provoke more intrusive questions. And my… recorded opinions on androgyny and bisexuality or whatever can already fill a bloody tome. I don’t even think it’s my place to speak on any of it”.
“You could just avoid the questions. Change the subject”, Bernard offered, but Brett was adamant. “Plus, it’s 2003. I’m sure no one’s going to grill you on… your looks as often as they used to”.
“I dunno… Journalists will grasp at straws if it means they get to write a cheap profile”.
“Who cares what they say? It looked nice before and I’m sure it still suits you”.
Brett smiled at him. “Stop flirting, old man”.
“Why? Afraid you might like it?” Bernard winked, eliciting a guffaw from him, a reaction that only spurred him on. He puckered his lips and grabbed Brett by the shoulders, who unsuccessfully tried to push him and the fake threat of kisses away. “Afraid to become a bisexual man that has had a homosexual experience?”
As if that shameful reference wasn’t enough to catch his victim off guard, their lips did accidentally lock during the struggle. They parted abruptly, with Brett immediately turning away. It wasn’t a real kiss by any means, but it pulled the rug from under them nonetheless.
Seeing that Brett wasn’t taking it very well –he looked like he’d seen a ghost, to put it mildly–, Bernard decided to speak first some time later. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“I know. It’s okay”.
“You don’t seem okay”.
“Should I?” Bernard didn’t know the right answer. After a few more minutes of thick silence, Brett grabbed his coat and finally got to the front door.
“Wait”. Brett stopped, but couldn’t bring himself to face him again. Bernard sighed and walked towards him, though keeping a safe distance. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it has to be”.
“You think so?” was his deadpan retort.
Bernard shook Brett by one of his shoulders, forcing him to see how determined he was about it. “You know it means nothing”.
That didn’t help either. Brett held his head with both hands. “Maybe to you it doesn’t”, he eventually whispered, before going for the doorknob.
“Wait, wait!” Bernard tried again, yanking his arm away from the exit. “You can’t say… cryptic shit like that and just walk out”. Uncertain as he was, Brett gave in and turned to him, though strategically avoiding his gaze. “Tell me what’s bothering you”.
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “I… fear that it opened… a gate I had hidden so well… I didn’t remember it was there until now”.
It was a blow Bernard never saw coming. ‘Cause if true, he was sure that Brett would’ve at least hinted to his feelings before. Hell, he would’ve noticed something was up. But hand to god, there were no signs of it during their partnership, no matter how much ink had been spilled over a secret romance that never took place.
“I don’t… I’m not sure what to say”, he replied at last, compelled to take the honest route for a change.
Brett spoke grimly, his eyes fixed on the door. “I hear ‘bye’ is very popular these days”.
Bernard panicked. “Come on–”
“See you later”.
And he would’ve left for good right then if Bernard hadn’t kissed him, properly this time. And sweetly, too, cupping one of his cheeks, just like he always would with his wife. Brett instinctively closed his eyes as he brought one hand to Bernard’s head and tangled its fingers in his hair. Savouring a moment he knew was a once in a lifetime privilege to him.
Bernard gulped as he pulled away, his hand lingering on Brett’s face. And before any insecurity could take over his old friend, he simply pointed out: “It’s mutual… just so you know”.
“Alright”, he beamed, and so did Bernard, despite knowing all too well that what they’d just shared would never happen again.
“Might as well go all the way and kick down the fucking gate, no?”
Brett agreed without saying a word.
After that tumultuous morning, dozens of words began flowing on the pages of Brett’s current notebook, and he spent a couple of months polishing them into something worth presenting, though with no clear purpose in mind. Bernard and him stayed in touch through that period, but opted not to see each other too often, unintentionally resuming the dynamic that was in place when they were writing partners.
Then, right before the spring came, a casual dinner at what had become their favourite hole-in-the-wall Indian place turned into a serious discussion on the idea of working together again, at Brett’s suggestion. Just the two of them.
Bernard was rather apprehensive at first. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why not?” There was a hint of indignation in Brett’s voice that Bernard did not miss, so despite having cultivated a reputation for not mincing his words, he made a conscious effort to be less harsh than he would on average.
“Well… for starters, don’t you think people will misinterpret it as a reunion of the ‘real’ Suede?” As a matter of fact, the idea had not crossed Brett’s mind, and his stunned face proved as much. Bernard couldn’t help to laugh a little. “Not so simple now, is it?”
But Brett wouldn’t be discouraged so easily. “Okay, I’ll… admit that wasn’t a concern of mine until now. But whatever the result is, we both know it won’t be Suede”.
Bernard gave him an incredulous look. “So what, we just repeat that little story every single time it gets brought up in interviews? ‘Cuz I have to tell you, I feel exhausted just imagining it”.
“Maybe it’s going to take some… defending on our part. But I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves, wondering what the public’s gonna say before we’ve laid any songs down. Isn’t that what matters?”
“Point taken”, Bernard conceded, stifling a chuckle when he noticed how proud Brett looked that his powers of persuasion finally worked on him. “However… I must say I’m not sure if we’ll have the same…”
“Same what?” Brett pressed as he nibbled on the last bit of naan left on the table.
Bernard rolled his eyes. “Ugh, I thoroughly despise this concept– for lack of a better word, d’you think our chemistry will be the same as before?”
That question weighed heavily on them as soon as it was out in the open. As well as they got on after publicly hating each other’s guts for a big chunk of their lives, they weren’t friends anymore. “Not like before”, as Bernard accurately predicted on their first meeting. And that could either boost the creative process or destroy it.
But say it all went perfectly: no fights in the studio or off, no real setbacks during the sessions, no irreconcilable differences to speak of. Even in such a scenario, what was particularly frightening to come to terms with was that, until they heard the hypothetical outcome, there would be no way to tell if their energy still matched on a recording. And if the fruit of their labour was nothing to write home about, could that be grounds to sever their personal relationship yet again?
After mulling it over for a minute or two, Brett came to a surprisingly enlightening conclusion. “It won’t be the same, because we’re not who we were a decade ago. We’ve grown up. We’ve improved at our craft. And most importantly, we’ve buried the hatchet. So if you ask me… it seems like giving it another go now could lead to topping our past efforts”.
He could deny it all he wanted, but Bernard was idealistic at heart. That was what made him stay committed to Suede through every dreadful gig with zero turnout, every time a record executive built them up only to tear them down, every journey to and from Brett’s flat made exclusively to write something, even though it wasn’t taking them anywhere. Because he was certain that they had what it took to make it big, as silly as that expression was in hindsight.
“Making it big” had been cast off his list of priorities a long time ago. Unlike Brett, he was never built for that kind of life. But if his former bandmate was genuine in his desire to seize the chance they finally had to just make a good record together, he felt he had no choice but to go for it.
Bernard nodded slowly, provoking a relieved smile to spread across Brett’s face. The realization of what he’d just said yes to suddenly made him shy, so he opted to focus on playing with his utensils. “Would it be a one-off thing or…?”
“I don’t know, maybe. But I’ve got heaps of material already”, Brett announced off-handedly.
“Really?” They locked eyes. Bernard’s deer in the headlights reaction was kind of hysterical, but Brett knew better than to tease him in the middle of a major conversation like this.
“Yeah, though how much is useful will be up to you, of course”.
Grateful, but adamant to appear laid back, Bernard only offered a small smile in return to Brett’s trust. Something he felt was so lacking in their previous endeavors. “When can I take a look at it?”
“Whenever you’re free. We can meet at your studio and go over it together”, Brett replied eagerly.
“No edits needed?”
“Mmm. Don’t think so, but feel free to suggest any changes or things we can add. I don’t mind”.
“Of course you don’t”, Bernard stated matter-of-factly. “If we put anything out with our names attached to it, it has to be brilliant. Otherwise, what’s the point?”.
Brett nodded enthusiastically. “And I promise none of my little drafts are rubbish”.
“I’ll take your word for it”, Bernard smiled again, clinking his nearly empty glass of water with Brett’s to mark the momentous occasion, and eliciting laughter from his new co-worker.
It was close to midnight when they stepped out of the restaurant, and March’s cold air was less than welcoming after a hot meal and an exciting conversation on a future project.
Just as Bernard approached him to say goodbye, Brett had one final thought. “Is it too soon to go over names?”
“Dunno”, Bernard sighed. “Got any ideas?”
Brett paused, seemingly deep in thought. “Could be our last names”.
Bernard winced. “Eh…”
“What?”
“Sounds a bit like an insurance firm, don’t you think?”
Brett laughed, but couldn’t argue with that. “Fine. But it’s all I’ve got for now”.
Bernard scoffed. “Hope the lyrics are better than that”.
“Hey!”
“I’m just fucking with you”, he laughed, before addressing something that had piqued his curiosity earlier. “When did you start writing, anyway?”
Brett wasn’t sure, but still ventured a guess. “Must’ve been around the same week I first went to your house. Why?”
“Oh… so… are there any…” Brett arched an eyebrow when he trailed off for a bit. Bernard rarely stumbled on his words like that. “Is any of it… about that?”
Until then, Brett felt safe in assuming they had sealed an implicit pact to stay as far away as possible from the topic that Bernard just alluded to so carefully. So needless to say, the question was a little startling. And as someone that wasn’t used to explaining the backstory of his work –especially when nobody had heard it yet–, any words that came to mind felt inadequate as a reply.
“I couldn’t confidently say… because some of it is about… you know… us”, he unintentionally paused right as he blushed. “But I don’t believe there’s a direct reference to… that day. Still… if it worries you at all–”
“No. That’s not the reason”, Bernard cleared up, somewhat endeared by Brett’s nervousness around the topic. While it did make him uneasy to know that the press could use anything to make shit up about them, part of him was secretly looking forward to seeing himself through his old friend’s eyes again. “Just wanted a heads up if that was the case, I suppose”.
“Fair enough”, Brett grinned, thankful that not only the subject was dropped, but Bernard didn’t seem uncomfortable after he confessed that their affection for one another was a significant influence in his writing.
In fact, as a sign of gratitude, Bernard put his better judgement aside and embraced him before going home, a gesture that Brett was a lot more open to now than on that first encounter.
The idea of bonding over music again was already fulfilling for both of them, and even though they wouldn’t dare to admit it, they were irredeemably hopeful that things would be okay. In no small regard because, despite everything that had gone down, past and present, they achieved something that seemed impossible not too long ago: to tolerate each other.
To be frank, they were dangerously close to enjoying each other’s company, too.
“Thank you”, Bernard said finally, his chin still lodged in Brett’s shoulder.
Instead of letting go, Brett held him even tighter. “No problem”.