color me in gold (lips like petals on my throat)

glissando.

It's nearly a week later when Brett finally manages to wrangle some alone time at home. He hasn't realized just how much time he and Eddy spend together, wandering around like twins joined at the hip—which is as safe an analogy as he could think of; that'll have to do.

Now that he's purposely giving attention to the amount of time they spend together, it then follows that he realizes being with his best friend for inordinately long periods of time had been as easy as breathing. And fuck, he probably shouldn't look at that too closely, or he'll start hurting real bad. So.

Onward to the more important current matters of his life, like this newfound mission he's taken upon himself concerning Eddy's mysterious crush, or whatever. He hasn't been able to get a chance to sneak around his friend's bedroom after that first time, not with Eddy frollicking around the house and his tendency to hole himself up in his room and practice until odd hours in the early morning. The only real chance Brett has to get an eyeful of those letters again is whenever Eddy deigns to wander out of the house without him, and when Olaf's call about some rehairing finally comes, he thanks every deity and Ling Ling for the other man's kindness—Eddy volunteers to visit, and Brett volunteers to stay behind.

He says I need to practice, but really, he means I need to read more of your letters, you romantic motherfucker.

Oh, he's pretty aware of the potential boundaries he's probably illegally, knowingly crossing, but this is important. It's for his best friend and his future happiness, a venture Brett's wholly invested in. Eddy will forgive him for the breach in privacy, he thinks. Anyway, he'll be way too distracted when he gets the girl.

Or guy. Or whoever. Brett doesn't care, ha ha, you thought?

*

Another cold night again. I hope you're staying warm. The dorms get freezing at times, but thank god for the heating, huh? Let's hope our heaters don't fail you tonight when you fall asleep.

I always wonder what you dream about. I've never asked, and you never tell — I can imagine it already, your look of disbelief, thinking this question is a waste of your time. Forgive me, then, for my curiosity. You know all I want is to know everything about you.

You smile in your sleep sometimes, did you know that? You smile in your sleep at some unknown spectre, and soon enough, I've learned how to envy the phantom guests you entertain at night. Hoping beyond words I'd be somewhere amongst them, if your mind theater would be so kind as to add me as an actor.

How about me, you ask? Well.

You wouldn't believe the dreams I have about you.

Let me tell you a secret.

I think of you, sometimes. Or maybe more than sometimes; I'm not shy about it, not here on paper, my pen keeping council with my wicked thoughts. My mind is restless when it isn't focused on music, Sibelius and Debussy some worthy diversions, and so most of the time, it's consumed with thoughts of you.

Oftentimes, I imagine you as you are, your talk and your talent and the treasure that is your entirety, and my heart soars. And sometimes, I imagine you all spread out for me, a splendid feast for the taking, and I can't help myself. You know I think you're amazing. I don't think you know I find you beautiful.

And darling, you make me hungry. You make me so goddamn hungry.

There's an aching between his ribs, a knife between his lungs as he reads. He has to take a breather at that last part—hungry, you make me so goddamn hungry—and oh god, but he has to put a shaking hand to his mouth at that.