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

cantabile.

Here is the truth as it stands—Brett's been head over heels for his best friend for the longest fucking time. It's not anything new; the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and so too, does his world spin and turn on the axis of Eddy Chen.

But here's the kicker: he's never going to tell him. Telling would be knowingly stepping into a spiked-lined pit. Telling would be throwing himself into incoming traffic. Telling means disappointment; telling means getting hurt. And oh, call him a coward, but Brett is scared. It's just not a thing that's ever going to happen, as far as he and his self-preservation is concerned.

But there are times, though. Oh god, but there are times when the words seem to pool at the valleys of his throat, a tameless river coursing through and carving out wounds he can never, ever recover from.

He'd been the type to scoff at the kind of love that changes people, the kind of love that turns a person inside out with no hope of reversal, but after looking across a stage at his best friend and feeling his heart wrench itself out of his chest, after Eddy Chen—well. Brett understands just how potent, how dangerous love can be.

Easier, then, to pretend he feels nothing. Stone-cold Brett Yang, master of the resting bitch face, the unshakeable half of the duo. It's better than the alternative, better than watching his best friend walk away with revulsion.

Pretending is the least he could do.

*

The letters are starting to take a horrifyingly dirty turn. And when he thinks horrifying, he really means uncomfortably arousing.

He valiantly pushes away all unwanted thoughts for the time being and turns his attention instead on pursuing his goal. For now, he's gathered that the letters' mysterious subject is someone Eddy's known for a long time, at the very least since uni, and an alumni of their conservatory. Within the social circles they run in, the cast of characters remains extremely diverse, thanks to Brett being a social butterfly and dragging Eddy along for the ride, and now, Brett has to think not only about the people in Eddy's year, but everyone else as well. Fuck.

But all this work is good, really. Stopping to think about anything other than the Goal would spell immediate trouble; stopping would give the stray doubts an in to mess with him, and oh, but he does have doubts. Wanting a more solid foothold in a heart Brett had thought he had stronger standing in until the letters, and god, he doesn't want to think about it, but the niggling thought persists, an itch beneath the skin with no means of relief. Jealousy is a bitter pill stuck in his throat, and he's got nothing to swallow it down with.

And to make matters worse, reading Eddy's longing in the letters has awoken something in him that he's long kept locked in a cage.

He's never been more acutely aware of the distance between himself and his best friend until now. His skin runs hot and cold, like a broken thermometer on steroids, whenever Eddy even so much as brushes against him, and he's lost so much time staring off into space trying to reorient himself when he could be practicing, or making more videos for Twoset, or literally doing anything else. It's a fucking hindrance to his normal everyday life, is what it's becoming, and it won't be long before Eddy notices that something's up with him.

And that's just not something Brett can allow.

The only way out of here—the only way to ensure Eddy's happiness and Brett's mental stability—is to figure out who is supposed to be on the receiving end of these love letters. The only way out of here is to figure out the one person Eddy loves most in the world—and Brett will figure out who that fucker is even if it stabs him through the heart with a knife for the rest of his days.