Chapter Text
It’s late and they’re both tired when they start filming, which later strikes Brett as something he should have taken into consideration. He could have suggested they wait until the following day, but he wanted to go to bed feeling like they'd accomplished something. Besides, reacting to memes is an easy, enjoyable bit, just them at their table joking and laughing together. They don’t even have to search for the good stuff; a member of their team pre-selects interesting posts for them. It’s usually an undemanding ten to fourteen minutes of content and laughter.
Brett is already thinking about dinner while admiring an intricate pencil drawing of Eddy when a meme directly addressing him pops onto the screen.
“BRETT,” it reads, “Would you rather not have Eddy in your life anymore or go without hearing or playing music for the rest of your life?”
The first part of the meme sits beside a less-than-flattering photo of Eddy, the latter a drawing of goofy-looking notes.
“Hmm,” Brett responds, eying the camera with his patented deadpan stare. “Not able to play or listen to music? So I’d have to live the rest of my life with no music at all?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, Eddy. If it was one or the other I’d take you, but since it’s both, you’ve got to go.”
Eddy laughs, but something in his laughter is a half-shade off. When Brett glances over, he’s surprised to see genuine hurt in Eddy’s eyes.
Brett instantly shifts into a playful, sing-song tone. “Just kidding! I’ll always pick my best friend. I can’t believe you’d even ask…” he squints at the screen and reads the username out loud before clicking on the next meme. But the energy is off for the rest of the video, most of which he carries himself. Brett rushes through the remaining minutes, skips the merch pitch and turns off the camera with a sigh of relief.
Eddy’s fake smile vanishes.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Brett says. “I didn’t mean it. I was trying to be funny and said something dumb instead.”
Eddy gives a stiff nod before turning away. “It’s fine,” he says, meandering his way into the kitchen. The fridge opens and closes a few times before he fills a glass with water, his free hand working at the hem of his hoodie.
Brett shuts down the rest of their equipment, half-watching Eddy as he works. “Want me to make you something to eat? Or order something?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You don’t seem good.”
Eddy gives a stiff shrug. “Okay fine, I’m not good — I’m great. Amazing, even.”
“Eddy.” He moves closer, slowly, and keeps his voice low. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have even joked. Will you forgive me?”
Eddy refuses to look at him. When Brett places a hand on Eddy’s shoulder he's surprised by how much tension is there, how tightly Eddy's holding himself together. After a moment of hesitation, Brett begins rubbing his back and Eddy's self-control disintegrates bit by bit — his forehead dropping against Brett’s shoulder, his chest hitching with painful-sounding spasms.
“Please don’t cry,” Brett says, but it’s no use. Hot tears trickle into the crook of Brett’s neck while Brett adjusts and re-adjusts his arms, trying to find the correct position to make things better. They stand like that for a long time, until Eddy cries himself out and Brett moves into clean-up mode, blotting at his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“It’s okay,” he whispers again and again. “We’re okay.”
Eddy nods, still sniffling, and still not looking at him.
“Let’s go sit on the couch,” Brett says. “Maybe play some games?” What he means is, watch a stupid TV show while cuddling, because that’s usually what they do after one of their rare arguments, but Eddy surprises him by shaking his head.
“I’m going to bed. I think I’m just tired. Goodnight, Brett.”
Brett watches helplessly as Eddy walks away, and he’s met with another unpleasant surprise when the door to Eddy’s room closes behind him. They rarely close their bedroom doors, and it seems like that soft click echoes through their apartment much louder than it should.
—
Brett expects things to be better in the morning, but Eddy remains remote. It’s worrisome, because usually after any sort of emotional interaction they’re closer than ever. Eddy loves it when Brett is openly affectionate towards him and often seems happier for days following minor disagreements, especially if the disagreement resolves with them cuddling together on the couch
This time, it’s different. Eddy seems disconnected, operating in his own little world rather than wanting to share his every thought and reaction with Brett. He responds appropriately to questions and does everything Brett and the rest of their team require but he’s distant and distracted, frequently glancing down at his watch with fleeting frowns as their meeting drags on.
“Eddy, do you need to be somewhere? We can wrap this up and finish another time.”
Brett blinks in surprise at their lead apparel designer’s question, displeased that she’s jumped into their interpersonal issues. Of course she has no way of knowing there’s any sort of issue between them; her concern focuses entirely on Eddy and his obvious discomfort.
He’s sure that Eddy will snap back into focus and decline the offer, but instead he rises to his feet. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m gonna head out. You guys can keep going if you want — if you need anything from me, send an email.”
“An email?” Brett blinks at him, surprised, but Eddy is already on his way out the door.
“I don’t think I have his email address,” the designer says, drawing Brett’s annoyance towards her like a lightning rod.
“It doesn’t matter because he doesn’t check it,” he snaps, only to feel immediate shame at her stricken expression. Apparently he’s just on a roll with the interpersonal fuck-ups. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “Let’s just — just end here for now. Send me the final specs and I’ll have Jacob schedule the photoshoot.” He drones for a bit longer, doing his best to sound professional as his heart races and his palms sweat. He can’t even remember the last time Eddy ended a meeting early without explaining exactly why, and he’s never left without telling Brett where he’s going before.
He feels rather than sees looks being exchanged around the table, and that only serves to heighten his distress. Without waiting for the others to gather their things, he pushes out of his chair and steps onto the balcony where he leans against the railing and attempts to catch his breath.
By the time he’s settled his nerves enough to go back inside, the room is empty.
He expects to feel relief — he’s finally alone and able to take some time to process his confusion. Instead he feels a keen sense of loss that’s entirely incommensurate with the departure of people he pays to work for them.
—
He texts Eddy twice during the afternoon, the first a casual inquiry (”Coming home soon bro?”) that’s left unread and the second sent in irritation (”Are you seriously ignoring me? We had things planned for today and now we’ll have even more to do tomorrow.”) As soon as he hits send he’s regretful, but he can’t take it back. Instead, he settles into his annoyance and has himself a prolonged sulk on the couch.
It isn’t fair. It was just a stupid meme, and he was doing his best to be entertaining because that’s his job and he apologized as quickly as he could. He doesn’t deserve to be shut out and left to wallow in irrational guilt. If anything, he’s the wronged party. He should pack his shit and go stay with a friend until Eddy gets over himself.
Having worked himself out of sadness and into anger, he tosses various essentials into an overnight bag and mentally runs down his list of options. Who could he visit that would annoy Eddy the most? Unfortunately for him Eddy is usually so laid back that no one springs to mind. Clearly, he needs to make a few friends Eddy will actively dislike in case this situation arises again.
Once his things are packed, he turns around and meticulously reverses the process before stowing the bag with the rest of their luggage. Stomping off in revenge-abandonment makes for a compelling fantasy, but of course he won’t let Eddy come home to an empty apartment. As soon as he returns they need to talk, because there isn’t a single aspect of Brett's life that isn’t dependent on things being good between them.
Having exhausted his A-tier coping mechanisms, he settles down with his violin and begins working on the most challenging piece in his repertoire. It sounds terrible, but the results feel deserved.
Eddy arrives just as he’s sawing his way through the hardest part, not even bothering to hit most of the notes or make a passing acquaintance with rhythm. Nor does he attempt to improve anything as Eddy takes a seat on the couch and watches with an unreadable expression. He shreds clear to the end before turning to Eddy.
“Well?”
“I’ve heard you play better.”
Brett seethes. “So nice of you to come home. I suppose your phone died, hey?”
“Nah. Had it silenced. Did you call?”
“No.” He’s suddenly so angry he can barely keep his voice from trembling. “You plan to be around tomorrow, or is it gonna be another unofficial holiday?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Eddy sounds completely calm, which makes Brett want to do something crazy. Grab him and shake him, maybe. Anything to erase that distant expression and get the real Eddy back.
“So you’re still mad about yesterday.”
Eddy shrugs. “Mad isn’t really the right word.”
“No?” Brett shifts closer. “Care to tell me what the right word is?”
“I’m not sure.” If he’s bothered by Brett infringing upon his space, Eddy gives no indication. “Yesterday I would have said sad, but today I guess it’s more… accepting.”
Brett cocks his head upwards, his breath coming faster. “Accepting of what? And the answer better be ‘of my best friend’s sincere apology.’”
Eddy looks at him oddly. It’s an expression Brett isn’t sure he’s ever seen on his face before, which is a startling thing to observe after so many years of friendship. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. He rises from the couch and starts down the hallway before calling, “I’m taking a shower and going to bed. Good night, Brett.”
—
Brett most definitely does not have a good night.
He’s too angry to sleep, too tired to concentrate, too upset to practice and too confused to talk with anyone. Not that there’s anyone he could talk with. When he’s in this sort of state the person he usually goes to is Eddy, and Eddy’s sympathies are currently unavailable. Worse, there’s definitely no one he can talk to about problems between the two of them. Almost everyone he’s close to has some sort of stake in their relationship — or if not a direct stake, then an over-investment in their friendship. Besides, he can’t possibly violate Eddy’s privacy over something that’s sure to blow over a few more days.
He just has to be patient.
The best outlet he can manage is to send an angry email to the team member who compiled the problematic batch of memes. He lays out a new policy that future selections require his sign-off before filming. He makes it clear that he felt blindsided and a little betrayed, and while that strikes him as a touch melodramatic after he fires off the message, he can’t bring himself to feel regretful for saying it.
Maybe he’s just reached his maximum level of impotent regret.
If he’s being honest, he’s not angry at the person who compiled the silly memes. The person he’s angry at is himself, because he definitely should have known better. It’s his partnership, his friendship, and if anyone should know how Eddy might react to something, it’s him. He should have been a lot more mindful, especially considering that Eddy has been more raw and emotional in the aftermath of Brett’s illness and all the stresses that accompanied it.
He was careless and thoughtless and now he’s paying the price.
Apparently that price is day after day of distance from Eddy and night after night of sleeplessness that slowly chips away at his sanity and general well-being.
He’s decided to make another attempt at talking to Eddy about it, really talk to him this time, when he finds his friend sitting at their kitchen table in front of a stack of paperwork.
“What’s this?” Brett asks, clutching a coffee cup with both hands.
“Paperwork,” Eddy says, not looking up.
Brett moves closer, his stomach churning with unease. It only takes a few seconds for him to recognize what the papers comprise, and the realization hits him like a punch to the gut.
“Our… contracts?”
Eddy nods, his eyes remaining on the paper he’s holding casually in one hand
“What the fuck, Eddy? You aren’t seriously, you can’t be really -- wait, wait. Are you actually contemplating…”
“Not really,” Eddy replies, not even looking up. “I just thought I’d take another look. Just in case we decide we want to take things in a different direction.”
“Is this for real? Is this an actual conversation that we’re having?” Brett places his coffee mug on the table before he drops it and takes a seat beside Eddy, staring directly at his face until Eddy sighs, relents, and meets his gaze.
“It’s good to know what our options are,” Eddy says, infuriatingly calm.
Brett drops a hand down on the table with enough force that his mug jumps and sloshes over. Dark liquid runs towards the papers, but he makes no move to intervene. “Our options? A different direction? You’re thinking along those lines because of a fucking meme?”
Eddy watches the slow spread of Brett’s spilled coffee with no trace of emotion. “Not because of the meme.”
“Because of my stupid joke.”
Eddy shakes his head. “Because of what I said earlier. About accepting. And it’s always good to know what your options are. Aren’t you the one who told me that back when I was so unhappy at the QSO?” He seems prepared to say more, but a ding from his phone distracts him from the conversation. He taps out a response to whoever interrupted them before rising from the table.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
“What do you mean, you’ve got to go? You aren’t going anywhere! We were talking, and we need to keep talking.”
Eddy eyes him with a look that lands somewhere between sympathy and pity. “Later,” he says softly. “Tomorrow we can get back to work. We have a lot to do, don’t we?”
It’s like talking to a complete stranger.
“Yeah,” Brett says, fighting to keep his breathing even. “Sure. Tomorrow.”
He manages to hold on until Eddy slips out the door before collapsing against the table and gasping for air that doesn’t seem to exist.