'tis the season (to love you)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It's strange how quickly one's life can turn around in a matter of days. Hours. Minutes, seconds, the mere span of a deep breath, a singular thought.

This trip has taken him through a lifetime's worth of emotion. Maybe even more; who knows? All this excitement, the ups and downs of experiencing the cyclonic force of nature that is Brett Yang: all of this can't possibly be good for his heart. And to think he'd been so sure of himself way back at the very start when he'd first agreed to this thing.

It's the night of Nana Helen's party, and Eddy hasn't shattered apart after confessing his love to his best friend's face yet.

What a goddamn Christmas miracle.

• • •

("You're an idiot," is the first thing that comes out of Belle Chen's mouth when he calls her after the night they had spent snowed-in, and frankly, he deserves it. Just a little bit, though. He'd been hurt and his heart had been broken, okay?

"Yes, Belle, I am," Eddy sighs. No use denying what they both know to be true. He's been a real fucking idiot since the day he encountered a dangerous idea from the one man he could never say no to and didn't even try to run.

There's a heavy sort of silence from the other end of the line. And then: "Did you tell him?"

"No." It's a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn't try to throw up any excuses about it. He hasn't told Brett he loves him. The more time passes, the less it seems to matter in the grand scheme of things, when faced with the dire need for self-preservation just to get through this fucking week. "I know, I'm an idiot—you said that already."

"Good to know you're self-aware." There's a muffled sound, the tinkling of piano keys from so very far away. Without even seeing his sister in the flesh, he just knows she's shaking her head at him. "Eddy, please. How much longer will this take?"

How much longer, indeed?

He doesn't think he has much of anything left in him.)

• • •

(When Brett kisses him, he sees stars, every time.

It's the end of their performance—or rather, the performance to which Eddy knows he will compare all other past and future performances to. He's still floating in the peculiar headspace after the high of playing well when Brett suddenly moves close and kisses the last remnants of his breath away from him.

And he'd hoped—he'd hoped. There's no one asking them to cater to the crowd, to perform intimacy for the sake of their audience after the music. And there's something about the look on Brett's face—gobsmacked, stunned—that makes something in him want to scream like a banshee. Maybe this kiss is different. Maybe this kiss means something different from all the other phoney kisses they've been sharing for this charade. Maybe.

But then the mistletoe hanging innocently above them gets pointed out by Charles, and the heart in Eddy's chest sinks.

Of course. Of fucking course. Hope is a cruel, fickle thing.)

• • •

Brett catches up to him, because of course he does. He always does.

And it's a sobering concept, when all Eddy wants to do is get away.