We don't like to put a label on it or, in other words, Twosetviolin one-shots

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What do you do when someone you care about shuts down? When it feels like they're slipping away, consumed by darkness?

What do you say when the person you fell in love with becomes a shell of who they used to be?

It's not crying or even despair. It's just numbness.

That's all Eddy can see in Brett now.  Dejected numbness. He doesn't know what to do.

What would anyone do?

He tries to smile and live as if nothing happened.  But every time Brett becomes less and less. He loves him, even when he's like this. And yet Eddy can't help but feel hurt too.

He doesn't want to show it. Because that's not fair, Brett doesn't need it. But it's there, the sadness, the pain, and the guilt. The helplessness and the anger.

But he's not angry at Brett.

He's angry at himself.

Eddy is angry that he can't do anything. That he doesn't know what to do. That he can't make it better.

He can't stop wondering how different things would be if he had noticed. If he had just looked harder. He wonders how he could have missed it.

He wishes Brett had told him. He wishes they had tried to work this out together.

Sometimes he also wishes Brett were sad. Angry. Lonely. He wishes Brett could feel something, anything. But all Eddy sees is nothingness. And he's scared he's losing him.

He can't help but be afraid Brett might break.

But Brett doesn't break. He just gets colder and quieter. And the more time passes, the worse Eddy feels about it.

He wants to talk to him. About everything. About anything. Anything. But he can't seem to find the right words. And even when he does, Brett doesn't respond much.

It's not his fault, Eddy tells himself. There's nothing he can do about it.

The truth is, Eddy doesn't know if there's anything to do. All he knows is that it hurts. And it hurts more and more every day.

The day he finally forces him to see a psychiatrist is rather cloudy. Eddy knows it's going to rain soon, but he doesn't take an umbrella.

Brett seems like a stranger. His eyes are hollow, his face emotionless. He looks like a zombie.

Eddy hates seeing him like this. He's worried about him. He's sad for him. He just wants him to be better. Is that selfish?

"Please come back to me," he whispers, like a child abandoned by their parents.

His voice is more than quiet, but Brett hears him.

"I'm still here, I'm just... Not very good company anymore."

That's the most Brett has said in weeks. And Eddy has to be content with that.

They sit quietly in the waiting room.

They don't talk much.

Eddy tries not to cry. He doesn't want Brett to feel bad. Because it's not his fault, right? It's not. But whose fault is it?

They don't talk much, but they hold hands. Brett holds his hand. Eddy squeezes his hand and doesn't let go. He needs to hold onto him.

He has to believe that he's still here. That he hasn't disappeared. That he's still the same person he fell in love with.

When they get home, Brett goes straight to bed. He's exhausted.

Eddy doesn't want to leave him alone, but he can't force him. So he lies down next to him. And even if it's not the same, even if it doesn't seem like anything will change, at least Brett is still here.

He's still here.

And as long as he is, there's still hope.