Chapter Text
Fire blazes in the kitchen, but it isn’t Eddy’s fault.
At least that’s what he’s trying to tell his flatmate as Brett frantically hoses the flames with the extinguisher he insisted they store beneath the sink; Eddy had thought it unnecessary, but hadn’t argued. He rarely argues against anything Brett suggests, because he really wants his new flatmate to like him, but—
“Could you get out of the way?” Brett snaps, and Eddy shrinks back as Brett aims another blast of foam at the flaming cook-top.
“I’m sorry,” Eddy, his eyes stinging from the smoke and ears ringing from the fire alarm that took him forever to disengage. “I’ll clean it up—”
Brett whirls around to fix him with a look. “I’ll handle it.”
“But—”
“Listen,” Brett says, his voice tight. “I’ve seen what your usual cleaning looks like, and while I appreciate you making the offer, the last thing I need is ash and soot smeared from one end of the flat to the other.”
The words hit him with almost physical force, and for a moment all he can do is stare at Brett with his mouth half-open. “I wouldn’t,” he begins, but Brett has already turned away.
“Just, go order something for dinner, seeing how our kitchen is out of service for the foreseeable future.”
He attempts to apologize again as Brett exits the kitchen while coughing, but Brett waves him off as he stalks down the hall to the bathroom and starts the shower.
—
Unfortunately, it’s not the first thing that’s gone wrong between them, and it’s all so frustrating because on paper, they’re a perfect match.
The friend who suggested they share a flat had pitched Brett with great excitement. He was also born in Taiwan! An orchestral musician! A violinist in fact, what were the odds of that? Plus he’s a super nice guy, well-liked and respected by everyone who knows him.
Eddy had sent Brett a text requesting that they meet up, to chat and decide if they’d be able to live together, but to his surprise Brett responded by telling him how much the rent would be and asking how soon he could move in.
“Maybe we should get together, talk over the details?” Eddy had asked, but after agreeing that was a good idea Brett sent a link to the application form and before he knew it, Eddy was moving his belongings into the neat two-bedroom flat.
Things started going wrong from the very beginning.
Most of it was Eddy’s fault, because he’s shy and awkward while Brett is confident and popular and everything he does and says emphasizes the differences between them. Eddy’s certain they could be friends, maybe even good friends, if he could only find a way to show Brett his true self — he knows he can be funny, a good conversationalist when he’s comfortable, and a great listener. But instead the self he presents is someone who tries too hard, laughs too loud, and consistently says the wrong things.
Brett is nice enough about everything, usually not responding to the dumb things he utters and hiding his smiles when Eddy responds to innocuous questions with rambling incoherence, but they never quite connect. It drives him crazy, leaves him with sleepless nights over the smart and funny things he should have said, things that would have charmed and amused his flatmate — but somehow he never gets better at it.
Worse, a lot of his habits seem to annoy Brett.
It starts with little things. He’s messy, just as a natural state of being, but in past living situations he kept his clutter confined to his bedroom. Here, his room is barely large enough to hold his bed and a dresser, with most of the flat’s space dedicated to a large shared living area. He sets up his bookshelf, his music stand, and his gaming system in the shared area and that seems reasonable enough to him.
Brett, unfortunately, doesn’t agree.
“Listen dude,” he says one evening after Eddy returns home after a long day of teaching. “I don’t mind you having a few things in the common area, but could you please keep it tidy in here?”
Eddy blinks at him in confusion before shifting his gaze around the room. “It’s—” His eyes skip from place to place, surprised to see several stacks of his unshelved manga, music scores scattered around his stand, the controllers to his Switch on the coffee table beside a forgotten cup of bubble tea and a hoodie carelessly draped over the back of the couch. “...Sorry, I didn’t even realize,” he says after an uncomfortable pause.
Brett’s perfectly shaped brows arch towards his hairline. “Don’t be sorry,” he says mildly. “Just tidy up, would you? I’d appreciate it.” It seems like he’s about to say more, but his phone rings and a second later he’s chatting merrily with a friend.
Eddy watches him walk down the hallway and close the door to his room, dejected by the abrupt end of their conversation and the happy, animated tone he’s using now. Brett might as well be a different person when talking to someone he likes, and it’s discouraging because Eddy is certain Brett would like him, too — if only he would give him a chance.
He’s so busy feeling sorry for himself that he wanders off without tidying anything at all.
—
Another major problem is that Brett has a lot of friends, and he enjoys hosting them often.
He doesn’t ask Eddy so much as he informs him: ”Hey dude, having some mates over tomorrow night.” “My friend from Queensland is coming in for the weekend, he’ll be staying on the couch.” “Hosting an after-work thing tonight, you’re welcome to join if you like.”
Eddy gives him wan smiles and nods, sighing inwardly at the prospect of yet another evening confined to his tiny bedroom, emerging only to use the bathroom and having to stand in line to do that. It’s not fun listening to Brett enjoy himself either, joking around and laughing uproariously as a stream of people call for his attention — ”Hey Brett! Brett, look at this!” “Brett, over here!” “Bretty, try this, it’s amazing!” “Come dance with me, Brett, you’ve been ignoring me all night…”
Eddy sighs and stuffs in his earplugs, but that isn’t much help. All they do is muffle the voices to indistinct murmurs, and he can still hear Brett’s peals of bright laughter.
The following mornings aren’t much fun either. Brett wakes at his usual early hour no matter how late he stays up or how much he drinks and worse, he seems to forget he has a flatmate. Every time Eddy says something or refills his mug, Brett startles and looks at him with narrowed eyes as if trying to place a suspicious stranger.
Still, Eddy does his best.
“Want some Advil?”
Brett makes a face and shakes his head. “Dude, I’m fine. I don’t drink enough to get hangovers.”
Eddy’s pretty sure that’s bullshit — Brett is green around the gills and swallows his coffee with difficulty — but he’s not going to argue. “Well… if you change your mind.”
“I’m fine, mum,” Brett says with a final swing of coffee before he stumbles down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom.
—
Being flatmates with Brett would probably be easier if they weren’t both musicians.
As it stands, they have to divy up their practice hours, because Brett finds Eddy’s playing distracting even when he has the mute on and although torture could never make him admit it, Brett’s intonation issues frequently make Eddy wince.
It’s not Brett’s fault, of course, the problem lies in Eddy’s perfect pitch, and that’s another sore subject between them.
“Yeah,” Brett says when he mentions it in passing. “You’ve told me. Listen, I don’t wanna be rude about this, but I don’t think there’s been a single day when you haven’t told me about your perfect pitch.”
“That— I haven’t, I don’t—”
“Dude.” Brett’s expression is hard to read but his eyes are bright with amusement. Amusement over what a dumbass Eddy is, probably. “Every day. Every chance you get. And I understand, having perfect pitch is impressive, but you don’t need to keep reminding me.”
Face ablaze, Eddy nods. “I’ll uh, I’ll stop,” he manages, wishing he could melt into the floorboards.
All he wants is to impress Brett, but so far he hasn’t managed a single impressive thing.
—
Part of the problem is that Brett is so impressive himself.
Not only did he manage to land a job in a professional orchestra straight out of school, he was hired directly into the firsts in a permanent position. Eddy’s search for an orchestra job has been fruitless so far, with auditions that don’t quite pay off and praise that’s polite but dismissive. He can’t help but be a little jealous of Brett’s easy success as he struggles to balance teaching lessons with playing at weddings on the weekends.
When Eddy asks him about it, Brett doesn’t seem to think his achievements are anything remarkable.
“Yeah, I scored a fellowship, and that led to a job offer.” There’s a shrug in his tone, like that’s standard for any conservatory graduate. “It’s not the soloist career I dreamed about as a kid, but one of these days I’ll make concertmaster.”
“You… will?” Eddy does his best not to gawk in the face of Brett’s confidence, and if he fails Brett doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy checking something on his phone, as usual, and when he looks up it’s with a smile that’s slightly tense around the edges.
“I will. It’s just a matter of putting in the hard work, making the right connections, and waiting for opportunity to present itself.”
Eddy offers a tentative smile, certain Brett is joking. “Oh, is that all?”
“That’s my plan.” Brett abruptly rises to his feet. “I need tomorrow afternoon to practice, does that work for you?”
“For how long…?”
The openness in Brett’s expression closes down so fast it’s as if a mask has dropped over his face. “I don’t know. For as long as it takes, or as long as you’ll allow me.”
Eddy frowns, wondering how their casual conversation derailed so quickly. “Dude, I’m not gonna stop you from practicing, I was just asking because I’m curious.”
Brett head tips to the side, his eyes still guarded. “Curious about what?”
“About how long an orchestral violinist practices in order to… what are you doing? Learning a new piece?”
Brett gives a tiny shake of his head. “It’s just regular practice to keep my technique from degrading. Isn’t it the same for you?”
His tone is neutral, but Eddy can’t help but feel judged. He’s the struggling violin teacher playing with a second-rate quartet, after all, while Brett’s with one of the best orchestras in the hemisphere with plans to become concertmaster one of these days. That Brett might think the difference between them is Eddy not working hard enough makes him recoil down to his toes.
Most of his practice hours are while Brett is at rehearsal or performing, so it’s entirely possible Brett just thinks he’s lazy.
“I practice a lot,” he returns before he has a chance to consider his words. They rush out of him in an unplanned torrent. “Three, four hours a day minimum. I play until I physically can’t anymore, and then rest until my fingers and neck uncramp. If I have an audition on the horizon I don’t even stop then. So yeah, I understand ‘regular practice’ because that’s the bare minimum that I do.”
Brett arches a brow at him. “I’m sure you do,” he says after a beat of silence, and the patronizing note lurking beneath his words sends a rush of heated blood to Eddy’s face. “Listen, I didn’t mean to start a whole thing. I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be disturbing you when I practice tomorrow afternoon, so my technique doesn’t degrade.”
The words are a mimicry of the tone he used earlier, and Eddy’s certain he’s being mocked. He opens his mouth to argue further, maybe to lash out in an attempt to make Brett feel as bad as he’s feeling, but Brett’s phone chimes and his flatmate instantly loses all interest in him.
“Hey Dalton,” he says, upbeat again as he addresses his friend. “Yeah dude, I saw that! I’ll be there for certain, and maybe we can convince Elisa…” He continues the conversation in his bedroom, where he closes the door with a decisive click.
—
Not everything that goes wrong between them is his fault.
It’s unfortunate that during his second month living with Brett, his mother arrives for an unplanned visit. She doesn’t bother telling him she’s in Sydney; his first clue is when she rolls up to his door with luggage.
It’s even more unfortunate that her arrival coincides with a party Brett’s hosting, a loud and alcohol-soaked affair. Eddy’s hiding in his room with earplugs in when someone pounds on his door, a cacophony he’d normally ignore because it means one of Brett’s annoying friends have forgotten where the bathroom is, again. Then comes Brett’s voice, shouting his name, and Eddy springs off the mattress to see what the emergency is.
His flatmate peers up at him with a smirk, his cheeks flushed, his eyes shining. “You’ve got company,” he announces before stepping aside to reveal his mother and her appalled expression.
“Mum,” Eddy says, doing his best to keep the horror out of his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“A fine way to greet your mother,” she says, eyes narrowed. “And what is this? All those people? All that noise?”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he says as she drags two suitcases through the door. There really isn’t room for them, so he grabs one and drops it onto his bed before noticing that Brett is still standing just outside the door. “Your friends are calling for you,” he says, doing his best to shut the door around his mother and her baggage.
Doing so doesn’t block out the noise from the party, or the stray comments that reach his ears: “His mommy, really?” “Aww, are they having a sleepover together? How sweet.” “How old did you say he was?”
Brett says something in a low voice, but Eddy can’t make out the words.
Face burning with humiliation, he turns his attention to his mother’s disapproving face. “You can’t stay here,” he informs her bluntly.
“I wasn’t going to. I have a hotel, I’m on my way there, I just thought I’d stop by first to drop off these things for you and invite you to dinner.”
Dinner sounds good, he hasn’t eaten since lunch and won’t be able to eat again until the drunken festivities end, but he’d rather starve than walk through the smirking fray to reach the kitchen. “I already ate. And what things are you dropping off?”
She nods to the larger of the two cases. “Just some things you’ll need. Extra socks, and underwear, and towels, I bought new towels for our house so I brought you the old ones.”
Eddy tries not to cringe. “Thanks, but I have plenty of socks, underwear, and towels.”
“And now you have more.” She opens the case on his bed and begins unpacking an explosion of mismatched colorful fabrics. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the hotel with me? My room has a queen sized bed, plenty of space to share.”
“...I’m sure.”
She delivers the disappointed look he spent most of his childhood trying to avoid, but he holds strong. “Lunch tomorrow, then,” she says in a sigh.
“Yeah, lunch tomorrow, that sounds fine. Have a good night and um… enjoy your dinner.” He opens his door for her and waits as she gathers the cases — one now much lighter on account of being empty — and wheels her way out.
Eddy watches from the doorway as she weaves her way around Brett’s friends, all of whom ignore her until Brett himself disengages from a conversation to open the front door and assist her to the curb.
Behind them, his friends snicker.
—
The bathroom shelves are already filled with Brett’s tasteful collection of matching towels and his own jumbled assortment, so the ones his mother donates wind up in a haphazard pile on his bedroom floor. His dresser drawers are also crammed full, so he shoves the packages of socks and underwear beneath his bed to gather dust in shame.
Unfortunately he encounters Brett the next morning, who — infuriatingly — doesn’t appear to be suffering any ill effects from the previous evening.
“Morning,” he says, nodding to the coffee pot. “Help yourself.”
Eddy runs his hands through his unwashed hair, feeling like a mess in comparison to his crisply dressed flatmate. “Thanks,” he mutters, filling a mug.
“Your mum seems nice,” Brett offers while tapping something on his phone. “She told me I was a very polite and well-mannered young man.”
Eddy fumes as he sips his coffee. “I’m sure that won’t be what she says when she reports on this place to my aunties.”
Brett looks up, his eyes comically wide behind his glasses. “…What?”
“On account of the party, and the drinking, and the chaos,” Eddy explains, although he really shouldn’t have to.
An uncomfortable moment of silence passes before Brett responds. “Dude. You make it sound like we were having some sort of rager with people snorting lines and swinging from chandeliers. That was just a few of my close friends, most of them classical musicians. There was hardly any ‘chaos’ and we were done by midnight.”
“Well it—” Eddy catches himself just in tone and checks his defensive tone. “Thanks for escorting my mum out,” he says instead, his hands tight around his coffee mug.
“Is there a reason you didn’t do it yourself?”
Eddy narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Yes,” he says simply before turning around and heading back to his bedroom, where he waits until Brett departs.