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

tremolo.

It takes a few more days of weary contemplation, a few more days of pacing back and forth and wearing down the floorboards before Brett finally takes a fucking hint: he probably can't solve this all on his own. He needs outside help.

His hands haven't stopped shaking. He can say it's because of the heat wave, or the aftermath of the Dream That Shall Not Ever Be Mentioned In Polite Company, but really, it's the not-knowing that grips him tight, holds him down. It's the yearning that sticks to his teeth like tar, leaves a bitter sting on his tongue. It's maddening, is what it is.

It is at this point in time that Brett finally curses himself for his curiosity. God knows he could've left the matter well enough alone, but no, he just had to read one letter, and then he just had to read one more letter, and now he's stuck continuing to read letters even as his world is crumbling around him in a pile of ashes and smoke. (Please excuse the dramatic line of thought; nothing to see here, everything's fine and well and—)

He'd thought he'd be able to hold out just a teensy bit longer, but there's nothing for it. He is very slowly inching down the path to a complete and utter breakdown. And so he calls a number he hasn't called in a good long while.

"Hello?"

He's never felt more powerless nor more pathetic, like ever. Brett forces a jovial tone to color his greeting. "Hey, Zoe."

"Hey, Brett! How are you?" There's surprise there; Zoe's not even bothering to hide it. Speaks volumes about how out of character this entire thing is from her perspective, and oh god, this is ridiculous. He's never going to let himself live this down. "What's going on? You don't ever call when you can send a text."

"I was just, uh," Brett pauses, wondering how to properly word his request without sounding like an utter moron, or a siren screeching MY BEST FRIEND'S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE AND I'M FUCKED from halfway across the country. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat, and continues. "I just wanted to run something by you real quick, if that's okay? You're not busy, are you?"

"Right, erm, no," Zoe trails off. "Well, I just finished practicing, so good timing! Lloyd's coming to pick me up for dinner, but he won't be for an hour, anyway." There's the rustling of fabric from the other end of the line, the creak of a swivel chair. Brett bites his bottom lip and shoves down the inkling of hysteria threatening to grow in the pit of his stomach. "So. What's up?"

Just suck it up and do it, Brett Yang. "Do you remember any, uh, people Eddy might've fancied or pursued back in uni?"

Silence. His breathing's probably too-loud in Zoe's ears. "Why?"

"We're doing a video about it for Twoset, some storytelling and so. Y'know. I just wanted to know if I could tease him about it. Vaguely, of course. Call him a heartbreaker or something." He's rehearsed this part a few times in the shower, but it still sounds way too suspicious. Shit.

Zoe hums the way he remembers her doing after their performance of Navarra years back, a whole decade ago: something like understanding, something like mild concern. It takes him back to that stage at John Paul College, and okay, that memory settles his nerves a little bit. "Brett, a little friendly reminder that you'd be the one I'd call a heartbreaker, not Eddy." He can hear the indulgent smile in her voice as she explains. "Kinda hard to remember who Eddy might've been with when all my mind's giving me are images of your admirers. Remember all the anonymous phone calls and texts you got after every concert afterparty? Oh my god. You were a legitimate phonebook at one point, I think."

And when she puts it that way—

Crumpling hearts in your palms like wet tissue paper, and hell, but they all come crying to me in the end.