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

lacrimoso.

Brett likes to think he isn't an idiot. He can't really be one, not when he'd graduated with flying colors, various awards already tucked under his belt before he'd ever taken a step out of the doors of the Con. He likes to think Eddy isn't one either; of course he isn't.

So, really, not-an-idiot that he is, he should've seen this one coming.

"Something's wrong."

Brett glances over his shoulder, attention stolen from the laptop in front of him and the fifty open tabs concerning apartment rentals and emails to Jordan. Eddy's looking at him, a faint shade of concern in those dark eyes. Brett turns his gaze back to the screen, because if they're having this conversation, he'd rather not be looking at the other man at all. Just—no. "With what?"

"With you."

Prevaricate, prevaricate, prevaricate. "What makes you say that?"

"You've seemed distracted lately," Eddy tells him, and goddamnit, there it is: the first drops of suspicion, trickling down on their heads like rain. Of course Eddy had noticed; of course. Brett has to quell the sudden urge to vomit his breakfast all over the table. "Is something—"

"I'm fine. Really. Maybe it's just the stress talking." He opens a new email draft and begins typing up a reply to Jordan, which ends up becoming more like nonsensical gibberish the more he babbles. "The move. How we're getting our stuff there. Videos. Salaries and shit. Y'know. The usual."

There's silence, long enough to tempt Brett to look over his shoulder. Eddy's eyebrows are knitted together. "The usual doesn't stress you out like this." At this, his hand flies out in Brett's direction, the gesture somehow encompassing the dark circles under Brett's eyes, the quiet trembling of his fingers, the haunted look in his gaze.

And okay, fine. Fine. (Maybe it isn't enough. He's just not trying hard enough to hide all the evidence.)

"I'm fine," Brett grinds out, firm and unyielding. His voice brooks no argument. He looks away, continues tapping away on his keyboard with more force than is necessary. Eddy is kind enough not to comment on it. "Don't worry about me."

He's fine. He's fine. He will be. He has to be.

(Heartache isn't something he's allowed himself to experience for years. Makes sense that he's taking some time to get used to all of it again.)

*

I'd take you against the wall of the practice room, I think.

It's another little dirty fantasy of mine, if you will. A daydream of sorts to keep me company when the nights are cold and thoughts of graduating plague my mind. It's both a boon and a curse. I'm sure you understand.

Our world is expanding. We'll all be going our separate ways after uni, living separate lives and separate careers - phone lines and social media posts are all I'll have left of the people I care for.

Most of all, I can't help but worry: am I going to lose you to this wretched distance too?

Fuck, I don't think I'm built for that kind of loving. I don't know if I can abide a world without you near enough to see and hear and touch.

But maybe I'll have to learn how. And maybe this fantasy, the memories I'm trying to hold on to - they'll keep me afloat. They'll make do for the ache in me; god knows I've been trying my damnedest for you.