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(The funny thing is that he’s busy entreating the audience to like and subscribe. “I’ve got a question for you, Brett,” is all the warning that he gets before Eddy pulls out a streak of white-hot mischief he’s obviously been dying to unleash for hours: “When was the first time you kissed someone?”
The cameras are still rolling. Chalk it all up to experience, but his poker face is unassailable, no matter how many times Eddy’s eyebrows flap up and down. “Oh, good question,” Brett says, playing along, tapping his chin like he’s genuinely thinking about it. He gives it a few seconds before he stops the recording and finally bursts into laughter, foreground to the backdrop of Eddy’s hysterical giggling.
When was the first time you kissed someone?
Obviously, this is a joke question. But in all seriousness, this is a redundant question. Entirely unnecessary, when you consider who it’s coming from. First time talking about our first times, Eddy had said, like he’s never partaken in more than a decade of shared history, like he doesn’t know.
It’s a redundant question. Eddy was there; he would know. He’d been there for all of it.)
(1) lit up heaven in me
When it happens like this, it doesn’t feel momentous. It feels like something, but not anything life-changing, not really.
The heat, for one, is nearly unbearable. Eddy grimaces at the sticky sensation of his t-shirt clinging to his back with sweat, swipes a hand over his forehead to push damp clumps of his hair out of the way. It’s the tail end of a particularly sweltering summer in Brisbane, and doing anything feels like being roasted on a spit. It doesn’t hold a candle to the scab-rendering truth of what it is, exactly, that he’s here for.
Brett had cornered him on the way out of rehearsals last Thursday, spewing babble about girls and experience and trust before eventually blurting out the words that may haunt Eddy from now to the grave: “I want you to be my first kiss.”
Which is — well. Easier said than done, really.
But Eddy’s never been able to deny him anything, not since he’d turned his head and made a friend in maths tutoring, not since the very start. And so here he is, lounging on the threadbare carpet of Brett’s bedroom with an old desk fan swiveling lazily between the two of them, and god, but it really is fucking hot, hot as the ninth circle of hell, and it is not making things better for Eddy’s sanity.
“Well?” He lifts his head from the floor to meet the bespectacled gaze peering down at him from the edge of the bed. “You ready, or what?”
Not in a million years, no, but he’s here, and he’s Brett’s best friend, and he promised he’d help. Eddy drops his head back down and allows his gaze to go cross-eyed and blurry, the glow-in-the-dark music notes on Brett’s ceiling rendered all but smudges against the white paint. “Why are we doing this again?”
Brett huffs. “I told you,” he nudges at Eddy with a big toe that somehow unerringly finds its way to a particularly tender spot between his ribs, “I want you to be my first kiss, so let’s just do it. Now, today, whatever.”
Just do it, right, yeah, sure. “And it actually has to be me?”
“Who else would it be? Some other person?” Out of the corner of his eye, Eddy catches the wrinkling of Brett’s nose, distaste plain on his face, and tries his hardest not to smile. There’s nothing to smile about right now, anyways, but it’s almost muscle memory, the urge to. “Some other person who’d probably make it weird and gross and forgettable in the long run? Nah, I keep hearing too many horror stories about it. This way, it makes sense — you wouldn’t make it weird or gross, you’re my best friend. And I won’t forget it because it’s you. My best friend. Duh.” Brett pauses, a sudden bark of laughter erupting from his throat. “Dude, it would actually be so fucking funny, hey — imagine, right, like I’m the best man at your wedding, someday, and I unveil, to the surprise of the assembled crowd and your future spouse, that you were my first kiss. And then I could boast about your prowess or whatever, impress everybody. Dude. Imagine the looks on their faces, the scandal of it all.”
Somewhere in the midst of all that word vomit, Eddy’s thrown a pillow over his face with the vague hope of it maybe suffocating him so he can get out of this situation. It doesn’t; it just makes the act of bringing in air more difficult for his lungs, so he tosses it back up to the bed. “Uh-huh.”
“You could do the same to me at my wedding, if that’s what you’re freaking out about. C’mon.” He hazards a glance over; Brett’s looking down at him with expectancy. A touch of impatience, if Eddy squints hard enough.
He doesn’t know what to feel about the concept of Brett’s first kiss, not really. Not accurately, and with any sort of clear understanding. Can’t pick out the right word in an identity parade to describe it. There’s a jumble of emotions and stuff pinballing around his stomach area, and he’s not capable of scoring an answer right now. It’s so thoroughly unsettling, and he just wants it to make sense.
Eddy’s only sixteen, for fuck’s sake; he can’t deal with this.
But again: he’s here, and he’s Brett’s best friend, and he promised he’d help. It doesn’t matter what he feels about it. What matters is that he gets it done for Brett. He’s never been able to deny him anything, really.
And what’s a first kiss to Eddy, anyway? Nothing life-changing, if he thinks about it. Just a press of lips, mouth to mouth. So what? Whatever weird feelings he’s got about it at the moment, whatever concept of importance Brett’s bestowed on the idea of it — a first kiss is objectively inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. A one-and-done deal.
Okay. Okay, he can work with that line of thinking.
“Fine, fine.” Eddy drags his hands down his face. “Fine, let’s do it.”
Brett’s face brightens. He almost falls off the bed in his excitement, limbs flailing wildly as he straightens up to perch at the corner of the mattress. “Hell yeah, I knew you’d come around.”
“How do you wanna do this?”
“I dunno. Sitting up here, I guess? After that, we just play it by ear. Unless you have any ideas.” Brett hums, shoots him a mildly suspicious look. “Actually, like. Have you had your first kiss yet?”
He doesn’t want to answer that, so he doesn’t. Instead, Eddy hauls himself up unto the bed, shoving the blanket aside to make space for a seat beside his friend. This close, he can watch a drop of sweat carve a path down Brett’s neck into the collar of his shirt, and wait a minute, that’s just weird, what he just did. “Can’t believe we’re doing this on the hottest day of the century. Is the feel of burning in a fire pit what you want to associate with your first kiss for the rest of your life?”
“Don’t be a baby,” Brett rolls his eyes at him. “It’s manageable. And maybe we just have to make this kiss scorching hot to counter that association. One-up global warming, and all that.”
He doesn’t fight the urge to smile this time around. “Weirdo.”
“Don’t make it weird or gross, I said.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
They just kind of sit there grinning at each other like idiots for a while until Brett breaks, lifting an eyebrow. “So?”
Eddy crosses his arms. “So what?”
“Are you gonna kiss me, or what?”
That question punches through his gut for some reason. He puts his hands on his knees, leaning back a little. There’s no way in hell he’s making the first move in this situation, so Eddy goes: “You want your first kiss so bad, you start it.”
Brett sighs mockingly, but then a determined expression descends on his face. “Fine, you lazy ass,” he’s saying, but Eddy’s hearing it from underwater or something, too distracted by Brett taking off his glasses, Brett wiping the perspiration off his brow, Brett putting his hands on both sides of Eddy’s head, Brett moving forward and leaning in, Brett touching his lips to his.
And there. Just a press of the lips, mouth to mouth —
They’re frozen for a moment, eyes wide open and unblinking. Should they be closing their eyes? People in the movies do that, right? So Eddy does, and it becomes almost peaceful, sitting here kissing his friend. Not seeing anything, but just feeling, physically, that they’ve done it. That’s it; they’ve kissed. Brett’s first kiss is over and done with. The knowledge of it settles the agitation in him, somewhat.
But then the standstill must bore Brett immediately, because he tilts his head. Moves his lips. Opens his mouth.
Eddy startles, leans too forward, too fast, and their noses bump hard. “Ow,” he can’t help but say.
“Can you just,” Brett pulls back but not too far; the puffs of their hot breaths mingle in the shared air between them. “Hold still.”
Hold still? Surely not. “What, lie back and think of Sibelius?”
“Okay, don’t hold still.” Brett pulls back even more, which disappoints him a bit and also makes absolutely no sense. “We’ll both move around. But there’s gotta be like a give and take aspect to it, right? Push and pull. Like a dance.”
“Or a duet,” Eddy says, and he doesn’t know where that came from, but it’s a better analogy for them. They’re musicians; they understand how a duet works. “We’re good at those, right?”
“Yeah, we are,” Brett nods, gaze soft. Eddy licks his lips, tastes the salt of sweat and — something else he doesn’t want to look too closely at right now. “So like a duet. Think of kissing like that, with more practice, maybe we’ll get better at it.”
Before the knee-jerk thought wondering why they’d need to practice to get better at kissing at all — together? — can begin to register, Brett’s surged forward, and they’re kissing. Again.
This is far beyond a first kiss, really, but the forefront of his mind is busy cataloging the assault laying siege to all five of his senses. The softness of Brett’s mouth, the gentle trail of his fingers down to Eddy’s neck. The heaviness of their breathing, the rush of air as they tilt their heads this way and that way, the muted sounds nested in his throat threatening to take flight. The sheen on Brett’s cheekbones, the furrowing of Brett’s eyebrows he can see when he dares open his eyes and take a peek or two. The smell of sweat and the lemonade he’d spilled on the floor an hour ago and the floral scent of the Yangs’ laundry soap. The taste of — well.
Somewhere in the midst of things, the kiss has gone from clumsy and awkward and stilted to something else entirely. And a first kiss isn’t life-changing, not really, but it’s damn near close, this one.
After an unquantifiable amount of time, Brett is the one to break the kiss, to retreat. Eddy’s panting, embarrassingly so, like he’s run up and down the street forty times, but he says nothing, eyes still closed, waiting for his heart to calm down.
So. That was a thing.
“Dude,” Brett says, slightly breathless. “That was awesome.”
Cool, good to know. Eddy can’t muster up much more than a quiet “yeah?”
“Yeah, see, what’d I tell you? Not weird or gross, right?”
He forces his eyes open to the sight of Brett’s flushed skin, his blinding smile. “But you’re always weird and gross,” he manages to retort.
“Fuck off.” Brett shoves him, and it’s not his fault that Eddy’s too out of it that he loses his balance and tumbles down to the floor where he started off this whole situation. “Oh shit, sorry. You good?”
Still sprawled haphazardly on the carpet, Eddy gives him a thumbs up. “Yeah, you?”
“Of course. All good here.” Brett flops down on the bed, his legs hanging off the edge. “We did great on that first kiss thing. I can’t thank you enough, bro.”
He nods, even though Brett can’t see him. “What are best friends for, hey?”
“You never said it was your first kiss too,” Brett says, later.
“Well,” Eddy says, gazing pointedly Away, “at least I won’t forget it either, because it’s you.”
Brett laughs and laughs, and fine, maybe he does have a point about choosing your first kiss partner wisely.
His first kiss isn’t likely to be forgettable any time soon, or maybe forever.
(2) might need your company
Music camp, despite Eddy’s best efforts, isn’t his mum’s top choice for summer activities.
Which doesn’t make any sense, when she’s always pushing him to practice more, to get better with his music. But then again, she’s also starting to tell him to study more so he can become a doctor, so. There’s that.
But this year, he’s managed to convince her yet again to let him join summer music camp, thank god. Brett gets to join every year; he doesn’t know what he’d do if he misses out while Brett goes to camp without him.
It’s been months since that first kiss. Their first kiss, in that it had been their first, for the both of them. Nothing’s changed much, not that Eddy thought something would. They still hang out, practice together, go to places together, do pretty much everything together. He’s as happy as usual with his everyday life, of course, but he could stand to lose this strange feeling of wary anticipation, or some shit. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It follows him into music camp, into the cabins that the orchestra has managed to rent this year, into the cacophony of sessions and rehearsals, into the cool of the evening as they do recreational activities.
Speaking of recreational activities, Brett’s trying to convince him to join one now.
“Spin the bottle?” Eddy grimaces. He doesn’t want to think about the implications of Brett wanting them to join the game just yet. “I thought we already graduated from shit like that.”
“Well, it’s either that or go night fishing,” Brett laughs, leaning against the door to their room at the cabin. “And anyway, it’s not all freaky dares and stuff for this one. It’d be fun, c’mon.”
Again: Eddy’s never able to deny Brett anything. Which is why he agrees, and why he’s seated across the campfire from Brett, and why he’s spinning the bottle right now.
It’s not bad, so far, not really. He’d gotten tagged once and had to do a handstand, which in actuality had only managed to be a wonky cartwheel before the group had taken pity on him and let him pass, to the chorus of enthusiastic cheering and some half-hearted booing. Now it’s his turn to dole out some strange and unusual punishment for the next sucker in line.
The bottle’s spinning, spinning, coming to a stop.
Points itself directly at Brett.
And it must be the exhaustion from rehearsing a Paganini cadenza all afternoon, or the weight of peer pressure from all those eager eyes on him, or the effect that the weird fucking Feelings are having on his equilibrium that’s making him feel out of sorts, out of any realm of good sense. Something’s making him act unnatural, because Brett’s already moaning and groaning like he’s head of the drama club, obviously anticipating a frigid jump in the lake or eating a bug or something, but then Eddy’s opening his mouth, ostensibly gearing up to make Brett do one of those things, and instead —
“I dare you to kiss someone in this circle.”
Shit. He doesn’t know why he said that.
A lightning strike’s period of silence before everyone’s suddenly in an uproar, hooting and hollering and chanting each other’s names as potential candidates, and in the eye of the storm, Brett’s blinking owlishly at him, expression caught somewhere between surprise and another emotion Eddy’s never seen before on that face.
He doesn’t know why he said that. Maybe it’s a deep-rooted urge to cause mischief that he's only just discovering now. Maybe he really is just so goddamn tired. Or maybe it’s those inexplicable Feelings again, disabling every functional brain cell in his skull in the hopes that if he somehow manages to bring up the concept of kissing again, bring it up where Brett can hear it and be forced to engage with it, in Eddy’s immediate vicinity, then maybe — maybe —
Maybe.
Maybe what?
“C’mon, Brett, make your choice already,” Zoe is saying, eyes twinkling as she points at him with the bottle. “Or do you want it made for you?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m listening to the popular vote anyway.” Brett laughs, leaning forward with a sly look. Eddy’s gaze follows to where it points to — a blonde girl rapidly turning red-faced two seats away. “Janice, will you do me the honor?”
“Oh, since you’re asking so nicely,” she replies shyly, and Eddy has to watch, world abruptly slowed down into a near-crawl, as Brett moves forward and presses his mouth to hers.
This is the first time Brett’s kissed anyone else. Someone not-Eddy.
And this concept of kissing other people is probably what their first kiss has partly been training them for, anyway, but. There’s something about that thought, of Brett kissing anyone else, that is —
Nope.
He doesn’t want to think about it. Eddy turns away, valiantly ignores the churning in his gut.
The kiss is brief. They wrench apart a mere heartbeat or so later, the girl’s cheeks warm enough that he reckons he can grill a steak on them, or maybe even two steaks. Brett sprawls back in his seat, and despite this distance from across the campfire, his smile is obviously, decidedly smug. Eddy would be too, probably, if he ever gets that sort of performance rating from a quick peck on the mouth.
He comes to the realization — for one brief, sacrilegious moment — that maybe music camp isn’t hot shit after all. He should’ve just taken swimming classes like his mum wanted.
He finally finds the right word for the Feelings, not long after that.
Eddy almost wishes he hadn’t, but then Brett greets him with a huge smile like he always does, hangs out with him and spends time with him like he always does, stays his bestest friend like he always does — knowing the word to describe the sunburst in his chest every single time is liberating.
In the end, loving Brett is just a part of who he is. It had been kind of inevitable, anyway.
(3) lost in the way you move
It had been a spur of the moment sort of thing; he hadn’t been thinking.
Which is probably why he can only remember bits and pieces of it, of the night before: hazy flashes of glitzy colors and hip-swaying beats and too much alcohol. That last one’s the main culprit here, it has to be. Grappling with a headache so bad he wants to spew the contents of his dinner into the loving arms of his toilet bowl, Eddy buries his face in his pillow and attempts to recall.
Here are the facts: they’ve gone out clubbing on a Friday night. Last night — get it right, Eddy — it had been last night. Friday, that blessed day that delineates the borders between uni classes and all the possibilities that can arise from a free weekend.
He’s been stressed as fuck lately, is the thing. He’s preparing for a competition, preparing for a concerto at the Conservatorium with the orchestra, all while juggling his assignments and exams. He’s been trying so hard to keep himself on track and avoid burnout, but nothing’s been going to plan lately. So they’d gone clubbing last night to relax and unwind, to forget all their worries and burdens for a little while.
He remembers drinking way more than he should’ve had as a kinda-responsible adult. He remembers dragging Brett from his gaggle of suitors for the night so they could dance together. He remembers the alcohol ridding him of his inhibitions, his restraint. He remembers the way Brett’s grin had cut through the shadows like a floodlight, the way he’d rolled his body in effortless abandon, the way his mouth had become an irresistible siren’s call.
The point is that Eddy had lost his mind, had sent it rocketing straight out the stratosphere towards the Kuiper belt, and he hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking when he shuffled forward and kissed Brett right there in the middle of the dance floor. Right there for god and man to see like it’s completely permissible, like it’s allowed.
The first kiss he’d ever initiated all on his own, and he’d been drunk off his ass, too zombified to really be able to appreciate it or try and savor it or even fucking remember it as clearly as he wants to now.
And sure, okay. He can blame it on his insobriety; it’s not like Brett hasn’t had his own drunken indiscretions in the past. It’s a thing that has happened. A thing that’s just — you know. Whatever.
Fine, okay, it is not whatever. Won’t ever be just whatever, not to Eddy.
Won’t ever be just whatever, knowing he’d kissed Brett.
God, maybe he should just bury himself in the yard, let the worms take him. Beg the earth to swallow him whole, or something. Anything to escape what Brett has to say about what had happened.
His phone pings. Eddy grabs it from the nightstand and squints at the new text message.
Brett: hey man are you still passed out? let me in pls lololol
Well. He can’t deny this fucker anything, unfortunately.
Brett nurses him through the hangover and says absolutely nothing about that kiss.
“We’re good?” Eddy asks, frowning.
“We’re good,” Brett replies, smiling.
He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Ultimately, he discovers he is a man of many multitudes who can in fact feel both of those emotions at the same time, so like, fine.
(4) your eyes do the exploring
Eddy makes it a ritual, picking up and dropping Brett off at the airport every time he flies to and from Brisbane. It’s always booked on his calendar as an immovable appointment, no matter how much his friends and orchestra fellows complain about their appointments with Eddy being rescheduled around it.
When it’s one of the only methods he can prolong time spent with his best friend, well. People will understand his reasons, surely.
Deep down in a box shoved somewhere between two rungs of his ribs that he pretends doesn’t exist, Eddy hates the fact that Brett’s relocated to Sydney for career opportunities. Hates that he can only see Brett in the flesh every few months or so, can only be near for fickle stretches of time that will never be enough. He should be happy for Brett, he knows, and he is, in that thick slice of his heart that will always be proud of how amazing and talented his best friend is.
It’s just that — the absence of him hurts. It’s a perpetual thorn in Eddy’s side. The slowest form of exsanguination.
But, counterpoint: Eddy’s also not a selfish bastard, so he keeps his mouth shut, clings desperately to his ritual, and tries his damnedest to act properly the way his position as Best Friend demands. Like carrying Brett’s luggage through the terminal right now, like the gentleman that he is.
“Playing the violin in an ice bath, yes or no?”
“I mean, it’ll be comedy gold for sure,” Eddy muses, adjusting his hold on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder as they move through the airport. Brett’s a warm presence at his side, having somehow mastered the art of walking while looking at his phone at the same time, typing out ideas for their next video. “Aren’t you worried it’s too exposing? Putting our bare bodies on the internet for people to stare at?”
“Dude? We’re not gonna be naked. We’re gonna wear shorts.” A pause. “Oh, hold on. On second thought, you can censor our nips, actually.”
Brett just says things sometimes, Jesus. “Mental imagery not appreciated, bro.”
“Sorry. Still, you should do that and — wait. Wait a minute, stop walking. Shit. Well, that’s just fucking great.” Eddy looks over in concern, catches Brett glaring at his phone. “My flight’s delayed two hours.”
He manages, heroically, to push down the instinctive burst of happiness at the prospect of more time with Brett despite the wrench in Brett’s travel plans. Highly fucking inappropriate, that one. Eddy firmly plasters on a frown. “Shit. What’s the plan now?”
Brett rubs at his chin with the back of his hand, deep in thought, before a grin slowly curls at the edge of his lip. “Actually — care to wait around and share expensive shitty coffee with me?”
“Always, bro.” It shouldn’t even be a question; he’ll always say yes.
They sit side by side on rickety stools facing out onto the tarmac, quiet conversation punctuated by the roar of jet engines every few minutes or so. Brett’s right: the coffee is both expensive and shitty. They end up taking turns drinking out of a single mug, which is — fine. Absolutely fine by Eddy, really.
Deep down in that aforementioned box nestled between his ribs, Eddy does allow some truths to exist. He possesses an irrational hatred for Brett’s position in the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. He misses Brett like air when he goes. Loves Brett with unshakeable certainty, impervious to the strain of physical distance and the alterations of marching time.
He thinks of kissing Brett a lot. Dreams of pressing close and holding tight.
So, like — completely normal stuff.
He has to pretend that it’s normal, staring at the faint imprint of Brett’s mouth on the rim of the cup they share. Wondering what would happen if he takes a sip from the same side, slots his lips on top of that imprint as he drinks. Wondering if it would somehow count as a kiss, indirect but palpable with the weight of how much he fucking wants it. Completely normal stuff.
Brett’s rattling on about something long-winded: more video ideas for TwoSet, probably. Eddy takes a steadying breath, pulls the mug towards himself. He glances at the coffee stain mark of his lips on his side, then to Brett’s on the other side. Looping his pinky around the handle, he slowly turns the cup around.
“Are you even listening, dude?”
“Scissors paper rock, loser takes wasabi,” Eddy says, looking up and laughing at the sour look he gets. “I’m attuned to your ideas, bro, don’t worry.”
He thinks of kissing Brett a lot. So Eddy picks up the mug, lines his mouth up at the right place on the rim, and drinks a huge gulp.
Oh, but there’s a flicker in Brett’s eyes. A sharp, bright, cognizant spark there, and Eddy just knows with absolute certainty that Brett’s noticed exactly what he’d done. It’s pretty obvious, anyway; he’s holding the cup with his opposite hand now. Fuck.
He’d be fleeing for the hills right about now, if he’d been younger. If he’d still been that drunk student out on the dance floor. But Eddy’s older, made of tougher stuff, so all he does is put the cup back down calmly on the table and hold Brett’s gaze.
Deep down in that box that holds all of Eddy’s secret truths, there is also a fragile thread of hope. It grows thicker, the longer they remain locked in this staring match, the more Eddy looks and sees the coy expression on Brett’s face traipse into something warmer, something heavier. Something more.
Brett looks away first, glancing at the latest plane hurtling down the runway. Eddy smiles.
“Something on my face?”
“Pimples,” Brett says. He’s smiling too.
“Fuck off.” Eddy rolls his eyes, pushes the mug back over to the other end of the table. He watches as Brett takes his own turn at sipping the coffee — and does absolutely nothing to change the position of the cup.
Imprint to imprint, and twice at that. Something in Eddy’s chest burns.
“Your flight’s in half an hour. Wanna walk to the gate yet?”
“Nah,” Brett says, silent fondness waltzing in his eyes. “I just wanna sit with you for a little longer.”
Brett comes back home to Brisbane for TwoSet; they’re inseparable after that. When they decide to make the move to Singapore, Brett’s the one to pick Eddy up at his place so they can go to the airport together.
The next time they share a single cup of coffee, it’s in their new apartment. There’s boxes all over the floor, but they manage to pick their way through the makeshift obstacle course to get to the kitchen and the esteemed place of honor for their brand new coffee maker.
Eddy attempts the same indirect kissing move he’d pulled at the airport all those years ago, but Brett’s had enough of his bullshit by now, clearly, if the way he shoves the mug away and grabs Eddy’s face to directly give him the actual real thing this time around is any indication.
It’s not the first kiss, obviously, but it’s the first kiss where they’re finally on the same page. It’s messy and frantic and awkwardly interspersed with laughter and comments insulting Eddy’s flirting skills, but it’s as good a first kiss as any.
(5) morning music real loud
It shouldn’t bother Eddy, not in the way that this somehow does.
He knows his mum loves Brett — obviously, like who wouldn’t love Brett? — and their families are so close that he knows his mum has fancy vegetarian brunches with the Yangs every week even when their children aren’t around. His mum adores Brett and his family, wholly accepts their relationship and their work life and all that it entails.
But there’s just something that’s missing. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, and despite all the blatant signs that his mum will absolutely and wholeheartedly give her blessing for him to marry Brett someday, the situation is still frustrating him to no end.
He’s talked to Belle about it, but despite being the avid scholar of their mother that she is, she has no idea about it either. She tells him he’s being paranoid, that he’s probably, unintentionally looking for reasons to self-sabotage, and that she loves him enough to let him know directly.
So fine, maybe he is being a little weird about it. It’s still a feeling he can’t shake, this wrongness. This piece of the puzzle that he seems to have misplaced.
It happens on a bright Tuesday morning at the Chens’ house in Brisbane. Knowing they’d be coming home to visit their families for a week before heading out to Europe for the next leg of their new world tour, his mum had invited them to breakfast. Brett had opted to bring some flowers and vitamins as gifts, and she’d accepted them all graciously.
They’ve just finished breakfast when his mum shoos them out to the living room so she can clean. Brett stares at the door to the kitchen, a mild frown on his face. “Can’t we offer to help?”
Eddy smiles, plops himself down on the couch. “You know she’ll never take you up on it.”
“Maybe one day, she will,” Brett muses. “Gotta get her to loosen up, keep her guard down, then spring it on her so she says yes without even thinking about it.”
“Nice plan, I wanna see it in action.” He watches Brett grab two controllers from the TV console. It’s become a tradition, playing Mario Kart at home every time they visit. And it’s always a pleasure beating Brett’s ass in-game. “Maybe try — hmmh, Christmastime?”
“Good idea.”
“What are you two talking about?” Bonnie Chen bustles into the room, evidently done with her cleaning routine.
“Oh, y’know, Mrs. Chen,” Brett smiles cheekily, winsomely, “just some plans to wash the dishes all by myself one day. Without you trying to stop me.”
“You silly boy.” She shakes her head, reaches up and plants a kiss on Brett’s forehead, like she’s done it a hundred times before and not for the first time, ever, with another person who isn’t a Chen. “You can keep trying next time.”
With that announcement proclaimed, she leaves the room humming a melody to herself that may or may not be Mozart. Leaves shell-shocked silence in her wake.
And — oh. That’s what he’s been missing.
Just now, she’d kissed Brett the same way she does both of her kids: on the forehead with a light tap of her knuckles on the shoulder right after.
Brett’s frozen on the spot, unmoving but for the way his eyes suddenly dart towards Eddy, as if to ask for confirmation that, yes, she did in fact do that, and it hadn’t been a figment of his imagination.
Eddy can do nothing but nod, heart stuck in his throat. Yes, that was a thing that had happened.
They remain motionless on each of their ends of the room. Finally, Brett lowers the controllers back down. Mario Kart’s completely forgotten. Which is fine, because there’s no way Eddy’s going to be able to hold a controller any time soon, let alone play a fucking video game.
“Did you see that?”
Eddy nods. “I saw.”
“She kissed me,” Brett lifts his hand to point at the spot, and god, but his fingers are shaking, “here.”
Eddy swallows. “I saw.”
“She never does that to anybody but the two of you, you and Belle. Her family.”
He can’t stand it anymore, not touching Brett. Eddy walks over, takes hold of the hand still hovering uncertainly over Brett’s forehead, wraps both of his hands around it. “I know.”
“So that means,” Brett trails off, and it’s almost unendurable, the spark of wonder and awe in his eyes. “I don’t want to say it, I might jinx it.”
What the fuck? Eddy gives him an annoyed look. “Are you stupid? Nothing’s jinxing it. I strictly forbid any jinxes here. And if you won’t say it, I will.” Actually, he can barely manage to say it out loud, but he’s going to. Brett needs to hear it spoken into the air around, given life and weight. Eddy himself needs to hear it made real.
So he says: “You’re family now, too.”
Brett all but shudders at the words. Eddy wraps his arms around him, arms that are beginning to shake, holy fuck, but he grits his teeth through the deluge of emotion, anchors himself to the one fixed point of his world.
He has to say it again, he has to. “You’re family.”
“I heard you.”
“You’re one of ours, now.”
Brett laughs; it’s a broken, wet sound. “I think I can live with that.”
“Please marry me.”
And — oh.
He didn’t mean for that to slip out. Not like that.
Brett stills in his arms. Eddy pauses, counts to five with a mental voice that’s screaming at the top of its lungs, and doesn’t move a single inch. “Are you asking,” Brett says.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Make the family thing official for real, is that what this is?”
Eddy takes a deep breath; it gives him stability enough to explain himself. “Well, you’ve always been my family, you know that. Even before all this. Before we became, y’know, us.” He clears his throat, shutting his eyes tight as he continues, barreling forward through the most mortifying voice crack of his life. “But I — I love you. I want you forever, permanently. For good. And I want everyone to know.”
“That I’m family forever.”
“Yeah.” Mine forever. Yours for always.
“Right,” Brett murmurs.
“And, uh — look, I didn’t plan on doing it like this. I was going to bring you to — I dunno, fucking Switzerland or Austria or something. Plan a whole romantic outing. Say it there.” This situation is galaxies apart from the fantasy he’d been slowly building up in his head for months. Blurting it out without so much as a by-your-leave on a random Tuesday after breakfast with his mum and without a ring or anything else to offer. Great job, Eddy. “But I had to ask now. Sorry.”
“Now who’s fucking stupid? Shut up, don’t apologize.” Brett squeezes him tight. “And I’m saying yes.”
Yes.
Yes?
“Yes,” Eddy parrots in a tone that leans more towards the word ending with a question mark than a period.
“You heard me.” Brett’s grinning; Eddy can feel the shape of his mouth where it’s pressed against his skin. “I’m family now. You’re not getting rid of me, ever.”
He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to cry and scream and jump out the window and probably traumatize his mum for life doing all three. He wants to do so many things. In the end, Eddy says: “Well, I can’t risk getting disowned for doing that, obviously.”
Brett laughs, loud enough that it rings through the house, and a wild, frantic thought takes root in Eddy’s head: this house will never not know that glorious sound, not while he’s living. He’ll endeavor to make that sound so known that the walls will vibrate with it even without Brett physically being there.
“You’re asking me again, though,” Brett says. “I wanna see this romantic outing shit you’ve got planned.”
“Just you wait and see,” Eddy replies.
He does end up asking again in a more romantic setting than the living room of his family home.
Miracle of all miracles, but Brett’s answer remains — unflinchingly, joyously — the same.
(+1) i look like all you need
(The funny thing is that they actually rehearse for it, that last first kiss.
“We’re only getting married once, right?” Eddy’s pacing back and forth in the kitchen, undoubtedly adding more bald patches to the bass clef rug Davie and his wife got for them in Taiwan. With no response forthcoming, he stops, pinning Brett with a look. “Right?”
“Yes, idiot, obviously.” Brett shakes his head, because really. What kind of question is that? “I mean, at least I’m only doing it once. There’s only one of you.”
Eddy’s gaze melts at that, a quick flash of warmth before he returns to his worrying over whatever he’s stressing about now. Seated at the dining table, Brett leaves him to it and continues typing on his laptop, because some people actually have important work to do. Then: “So we only have one shot at making that first kiss count.”
“What first kiss? We already did that, remember?” He grabs his mug, takes a generous gulp of coffee as he reminisces about one of his fondest memories. Even if he didn’t yet love Eddy then, he’d still made a fantastic decision choosing his best friend to have his first kiss with. Fantastic decision-maker, that’s him. “And I remember we did amazingly.”
Eddy rubs at his forehead tiredly. “I meant our first kiss as a married couple, idiot.”
“Oh, well, sure.” That first kiss, he means. Brett thinks about it for a moment, draws a blank about any issue Eddy could possibly have for it. Might as well ask, then. “So what’s concerning you about it?”
Eddy pauses mid-step, attention turned inward for a second before he huffs, crossing his arms as he turns to Brett. “We have to practice,” he says in all seriousness, and with full apologies to his fiance, Brett cracks up. “Don’t laugh.”
He can’t help it. “Forty hours a day?”
“Don’t joke,” Eddy says, trying and failing to stop his mouth from forming a grin.
“Sorry, I had to.” Brett glances at his screen for a moment. There’s still so much to be done, what with an upcoming world tour and their impending nuptials on the horizon, but something about this seems to genuinely bother Eddy. And what kind of partner would he be if he doesn’t make time?
So he puts the laptop in sleep mode and stands up, stretching and groaning like he’s eighty-four and not actually thirty-four. Eddy keeps smiling as Brett makes his way over to him, arm immediately curling around Brett’s waist in a loose hug. “C’mon, we kiss all the time. You want to practice more, sure — my mouth’s all yours, babe. But I don’t think we need to practice something we’ve done a million times over.”
Eddy hums at that, putting his chin on Brett’s head. Brett lets him stew in silence for a moment, relishing the closeness and the warmth of his partner. And then Eddy speaks. “We need to find the best angles for the photographer.”
And, well. There’s just no fucking way.
Brett doesn’t move out of the hug, but he does tilt his head up a bit, a subtle nudge of disbelief. “You’re serious.”
“As fuck.”
“Angles? Really?”
“Well, yeah, I mean,” Eddy sniffs, “I’m planning to frame it and put it on our nightstand.”
Oh. That’s why.
Well, never let it be said that Brett can’t ever see reason. He laughs, curls tighter into the curve of Eddy’s body for a brief, warm moment before pulling back to see his face. “Fine, you sappy fuck. If that’s what you want.”
“We’re gonna need some mirrors or some shit,” Eddy’s saying absentmindedly, clearly stuck in the how-tos of getting the best angles already, and Brett continues to love him more and more. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
“Whatever you want, man. Sure.”
Brett can see it, the way Eddy snaps back into himself, smiling sheepishly over him getting carried away. But then his mouth tilts into a smirk, and Brett can really see it, the way Eddy’s gaze turns dark, heated and longing. “It’s not like it’s going to be a chore, right? Kissing me, the love of your life?”
“Well, if you put it that way.” Brett cradles the face of his most beloved in the palms of his hands, pushes forward and upward to claim the mouth that’ll be his forever. “It’ll only be my privilege.”
The photos come out amazing, just as planned. Eddy had made sure every angle had been considered, and he’d demanded to see the raw images on the camera before calling it done, much to the photographer’s barely-masked chagrin.
In the end, they must’ve had their first kiss as a married couple and twenty or more so kisses after that before they could finally walk back down the aisle. Not that Brett’s complaining, obviously; he’s more than happy to do more, at the pleasure of his now-husband.
“Hey,” Brett whispers in the car, their first moment all to themselves since I do. “When was the last time you kissed someone?”
Eddy grins, recognition in his eyes, and it will never stop being exhilarating, knowing they’re so intertwined, the threads of their lives so tightly woven together, that Eddy will always know what he means. “Oh, you know. Just now.” A kiss here. “And now.” Another kiss. “And now.” Yet another, and this one’s kiss number thirty-six, or something, maybe. He’s lost count.
But that’s fine. They can always start over, have their first kiss over and over again, reach a number so high it boggles the mind.
Brett’s planning on infinity.
At the reception, they unveil, to the surprise of absolutely no one in the assembled crowd, that they’re each other’s first kiss. No scandalized looks on anybody’s faces at that, which is kinda boring, but whatever.
Brett makes up for it later by boasting about Eddy’s prowess — that he’s absolutely had a hand in, thank you very much — though, so there’s that, at least.)