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Chapter Text

1.

Eddy has too many ideas. They are constant and overwhelming, about subjects huge and mundane - an endless wave of potential videos, analyses of technique and phrasing, the future of classical music, fashion, new approaches to social media, the artistic merits of k-pop. Ideas that prompt exploration and research that invite even more ideas in an endless feedback loop, more than he could ever tackle in a single lifetime. He wants to manifest them all.

Growing up, his mother so badly wants him to pursue medicine and steers him hard in that direction. Sweetheart, she tells him, you should use that big brain of yours for something important. He miserably thinks he can't - not that he isn't smart enough, but it's not what he wants and knows it would kill his soul little by little if he tried - and it's not until he joins youth orchestra that he allows himself to believe that art is important, too.

At some point in high school he begins to think about not only the ideas but why he has so many, about what the point of it is if he can't do anything with them all, and it feels like such a waste. An idea on its own is useless unless you make something of it, he thinks. What's the use of him if he can't?

None of his classmates seem to concern themselves with things like this, like it isn't the most important thing, and he wonders if it's just him. Is he driving himself crazy over nothing, just wallowing in a bunch of angsty delusional artist bullshit? It eats away at him.

He only voices this out loud once in his life, during a quiet, sleep-deprived conversation at 2 a.m. in a university dorm room. The silence stretches out long after the words leave his mouth, and his heart sinks with every passing second. It's such a ridiculous thing to agonize over, the way he's always in his own head. He's not some kind of tortured genius, he's being pretentious and stupid and why did he even say that -

"I know," Brett finally says, simple and soft. It sounds like you're not crazy. It sounds like it's okay. Eddy is able to breathe again.

Brett is sprawled on the floor across from him, slouched with his back against the wall. His head lolls over to look at Eddy, considering. The concern that flashes over his face is so subtle and brief that anyone who didn't know him so well would have missed it.

Brett's the first to break the silence. "I don't know exactly, the way you do. But given everything..." his arm gestures broadly across the room, at the con, at music in general, at the whole world maybe, "it's probably better than the alternative, yeah?"

From anyone else, that question would have prompted an eyeroll and an Of course it is, that's not the problem. But that's not what Brett's really asking. It's not even a question, just a gentle mental push towards what is the problem here, exactly?

Brett is not a simple person, but sometimes he'll communicate that way to get his point across. It's more effective at cutting through Eddy's bullshit than anything.

Brett does it again with his follow up: "You've got more options than most, then. Just gotta be selective with your projects, right?" Light-hearted and cheeky to be sure, but they both know exactly what he's doing: it's another push. A little firmer now, this time towards It can be a good thing if you approach it the right way.

Brett waits patiently for him to work it out in his head. Just before Eddy can respond, he speaks again.

"You can't do everything, Eddy," he says gently. "Nobody could." The unspoken It's all right hangs in the air between them.

Brett's smile is small but encouraging. The room, the moment, goes still and warm, and incredibly, Eddy's mind follows. The relief is enormous. Neither of them speak for awhile, content to bask in the feeling.

"You're probably right," Eddy finally admits. He feels lighter, somehow.

Brett laughs, sleepy and pleased. "Of course I am."

Eddy responds by chucking a pillow at his head. He misses by a mile, which only makes Brett laugh harder.

He starts learning to cope with his thoughts a bit better after that.

2.

The idea to make videos together belongs to them both.

Their first attempt is a disaster. It gets no response, and after a few days they huddle in front of his laptop to watch it again with a critical eye, now that the excitement and buzz of creation and accomplishment have worn off.

They're 20 seconds in when the realization hits that they have no idea what they're doing. What they actually produced looks so very different (and much, much worse) than what they'd had in their heads. Was this supposed to be funny? The editing is pure amateur-hour and why did they - no, what the fuck was that and -

Eddy leans into Brett and their shoulders sag in tandem, watching the video play out in full. They're silent for a full minute after, eyes still on the frozen screen. They don't dare look at one another.

Brett speaks first. "...Bro."

Eddy opens his mouth, then closes it. He tries again but gives up and covers his face with his hand, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "What the fuck were we thinking?"

Why did they think this was a good idea? Jesus, they posted this publicly and told all their friends to watch it. Their professors could have seen this.

He feels Brett nod in agreement and lifts his head to look at him. "Yeah, that was bad. Really fucking bad." He sounds almost impressed, and turns to Eddy with a smile that borders on amazed. "Bro, we actually suck at this."

That's all it takes to send Eddy into a fit of giggles. He buries his face in his hands to muffle it but his shoulders shake with the effort to contain it, and then Brett snorts, and that sets them both off and neither of them can stop - peals of laughter that take ages to subside only to erupt again every time they look at each other.

They're red-faced and breathing hard when it finally dies down. Brett removes his glasses to wipe at his eyes. "Good thing we're not film students, ey?" he asks wryly while he cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt.

Eddy chuckles, shaking his head before looking back to the screen. As failed ideas go, this one was pretty spectacular. "We should probably stick to music."

"Why?"

Eddy looks back to Brett, incredulous. "Uh, 'cause we're shit?" He glances back and forth between the laptop and his friend several times, punctuating his point with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, we're shit right now." Brett shrugs. "Doesn't mean we can't get better at it."

Eddy hums in response, pondering. "I suppose so. But we should probably take this abomination down before it haunts us for the rest of our lives."

Brett's nod is instant and emphatic. "Good idea."

3.

They get better at it.

They learn about the technical side of making videos, about content creation. They learn why making violin covers of pop songs is not a recipe for going viral, and in the process they realize that it isn't really what they want to do anyway. They find a voice. They start to find an audience.

It sends the creative side of Eddy's brain into overdrive, and the ideas become overwhelming again. The sheer volume of them seems insurmountable, something no amount of meditation or mindfulness is able to conquer. His mental state backslides, and he struggles to hold on to the peaceful acceptance he'd found in a quiet dorm room with his closest friend.

Too many times something brilliant and new and exciting flashes through his mind in the middle of the night or while stuck in traffic or a fast-moving conversation with his friends, only to have it disappear like a puff of smoke when he tries to recall it later. So many possibilities gone. Losing an idea hurts more than a failed performance, even - he'll always have another opportunity to play Bach, but lost ideas are like his dreams at night, fading away and forgotten the moment he wakes up no matter how hard he tries to remember.

Eddy forces himself to catalogue every idea the moment it occurs to him, and it helps a little. Now he has a file, folder, journal entry, bookmark, or voice memo for all of it. He's accepted that he'll never be able to cross off every single item - nobody could, after all - but there's comfort in having them all written down.

It simply replaces one stress with another, though. Brett doesn't realize the full scope of it until the day they sit down to discuss video possibilities and Eddy spends five minutes trying to find that one idea, he's knows he's got it somewhere and as soon as he sees it it'll jog his memory, just let him check on more place -

"Eddy." The alarm in Brett's voice stops him short, and he stands up to walk around the table, leaning over his shoulder to examine his laptop. He's got so many tabs and documents open it's likely to crash at any moment.

"Damn. That's a lot," he mutters.

"I know," Eddy admits. "I know we can't ever do them all, but I just - I have to write everything down, at least." He sighs, gesturing helplessly to the screen. "It's a bit of a mess."

"It's okay, it's just - " Brett pauses. "Let's get this sorted, then." He drags his chair around the table, right next to Eddy's, and sits down.

Eddy just stares at him, dumbfounded. "You don't need to waste your time on this. We should - "

"We should take care of this first," Brett cuts him off easily. "Show me what all you've got and we'll start from there."

They spend the entire afternoon on it. It becomes easier with each passing document they scan; there's more overlap in all his half-formed musings than Eddy realized, and Brett points out connections between others that never would have occurred to him. Those are combined and condensed into focused, concise bullet points rather than odd sentence fragments.

Some of them are so unclear, so hastily jotted down that neither of them can make sense of them. Brett convinces him to delete those after a lot of prodding. Others are, honestly, kind of shit now that he looks back on them. They commiserate and laugh, remembering their first video, and happily scrap them.

By the end of it he's down to a single folder with six separate documents: Skits, One-Off Jokes, Music Videos, Stuff to React To, Other, and Things We'll Make When We're Rich.

Eddy leans back in his chair when they're finished, tired but so unburdened he could nearly weep. He looks over at Brett, who's busy stretching his arms over his head but grins when he meets his eye. "What would you do without me, ey?"

What, indeed. Eddy shakes his head and smiles. "I dunno. Make another folder, probably."

"Don't you fucking dare."

Eddy smirks and looks at the screen for a moment, then back to his best friend. "So," he says, "a lot of options here. What should we make first?"

4.

Eddy can't remember which of them suggested busking on the streets for a month for the kickstarter - it came out of one of their late-night brainstorming sessions, both of them half-delirious and not completely sober.

They both agree it's a good idea.

The first day is fueled by shared optimism, excitement, and a single-minded determination to see it through to the end no matter what it takes. As the second and third and fourth days pass, the excitement fades but their dedication doesn't. 

Preparing for a difficult task and experiencing it firsthand are two different beasts. It's hard in unexpected ways and more exhausting than they could have imagined, but they know how to do this.

They did it every time they eagerly opened the sheet music to a new sonata or concerto that was far beyond their skill level but pushed through anyway, no matter how long it took, and practiced every note until they could make it sing. They did it when they rejected a childhood of overwhelming expectations because they wanted to make music instead. They did it when they believed enough in TwoSet to quit their orchestra gigs. Their entire lives have prepared them for this.

The morning of the fifth day finds them unbearably weary, though, souls stretched thin with the effort. They silently pack up their sleeping bags while Eddy's mind gets away from him, his thoughts even more chaotic than usual despite his exhaustion. He loves music, loves violin, loves performing, loves TwoSet and their mission. He wants this; they both do. But he starts to question if that dedication is manifesting in a healthy way, if this stunt of theirs was really a good idea if it costs them so much - his own passion once landed him a wheelchair, after all.

When their gear is packed and ready to go, Brett takes a deep breath and pulls his posture upright, nodding to himself before looking expectantly at Eddy.

"You ready?" he asks. His smile is tired but genuine, and that's all it takes to calm Eddy's thoughts. To remind him why they're doing this. He'll play until he can no longer stand and his fingers bleed, if he has to.

Eddy loves Brett, too. When they collapse into a relieved hug at the end of the night, he gets to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

5.

30 November 2018

Eddy's best idea materializes when they're in Boston.

They feel like seasoned veterans when they start their second tour, but while the logistics are smoother, the pacing isn't. Show upon show upon extra shows are booked, and grateful as they are, the long hours and jetlag and workload and sleep deprivation all pile on top of each other in a heavy load. By the end Eddy feels ragged and drained, and his mind shifts into a dull autopilot during the last few weeks.

Their final show of the tour gives them renewed energy, and they go out on a high. The material is comfortable and easy and broken in now, and knowing it's their last time to do it - that the only thing ahead of them is one more chance to play an encore with Hilary and a flight to catch home - lights a fire under them. Eddy doesn't know if it's their best performance, but it's definitely the most fun, and when they take their final bows he feels like he's flying.

They go out to dinner with the crew to celebrate, too buzzed on adrenaline for the exhaustion to start setting in yet. Eddy feels loopy and warm and happy as he sinks back into the soft leather of the restaurant booth, not contributing much to the conversation but content to soak up the excited chatter of everyone around him.

His eyes meet Brett's across the table, and they share a knowing, satisfied smile. Eddy allows himself a small moment of pride at what they've accomplished, and the warmth in his chest convinces him to let his mind wander in a direction he never allows.

As often as Eddy's ideas consume him, there's one he's never dared to examine before. If he had, he would have been forced to write it down. To put it on one of his lists, to see it spelled out in front of him, and consider what it would take to make it a reality.

He couldn't let himself do it. Over the years he'd accepted that some of his ideas would fail, and in his professional life, he'd gotten used to crashing and burning only to dust himself off and try again. This was different. Failure would affect him - end him - professionally, to be sure, but that wasn't even part of his consideration. The personal stakes were simply too high.

Brett, as usual, found ways to chip at his resolve without even realizing it.

The remarkable thing about Brett is his ability to be an extrovert without ever letting his guard down. Eddy's never seen anything like it - every other person he knows who loves being around others and thrives on social interaction tends to share their hearts almost too freely, to give away pieces of themselves no matter how big or small in an effort to make those connections.

Brett does the former with ease but never the latter. He rarely volunteers anything private about himself, but he's so friendly and charming that nobody catches on to the fact that one can have a two-hour conversation with him and walk away without knowing anything more than a list of bullet points already available on Wikipedia. He's tirelessly outgoing, but he's also careful.

Eddy's glad for it; it means there are parts of Brett that only he knows. It's selfish, but it makes him feel good to know he's trusted with so much.

It's taken years for him to come to these conclusions about his friend, but when he started touring with Brett yet another layer emerged: when he's exhausted and overworked, Brett leans on him for support in a way he never does otherwise.

He forgets to be careful. With jet lag and insomnia he becomes more sentimental, less sarcastic, more likely to rest his weight against Eddy's shoulder. More likely to express worry when problems with the venues or equipment pop up, when their shows didn't go perfectly. More likely to grab his wrist to get his attention and forget to let go. Eddy repeatedly dismissed hundreds of these little words and actions as isolated incidents - if he'd written them down he would have noticed the pattern sooner.

But on this tour it became so noticeable, so much more blatant with every show and every lost hour of sleep, that the idea Eddy spent years pushing down kept trying to resurface despite his best efforts. It's just a small voice in his head. One that says he's not crazy, that he's not reading too much into it. That it could be possible.

Brett catches his eye once again, and the fond smile that crosses his face breaks the last of Eddy's resolve. It's a rush to finally entertain the idea, to give it a full voice and let it take the forefront in his mind.

It sits comfortably there without a trace of fear or uncertainty. It feels right.

"You okay?" Brett asks. "You're more quiet than usual."

Eddy smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." And he means it.

Everyone is glued to their phones as they stumble out of the restaurant, reserving Ubers or checking the MTA schedule. Brett tugs at Eddy's sleeve. "Let's just walk. It's only ten minutes back, look." He holds up his phone to show Eddy the screen, and while it's probably a map back to their AirBnB he doesn't even register it before nodding in agreement.

"It's nice out, anyway," Brett adds. It's quite cold, actually, but they both know why he's suggesting it and Eddy's grateful for it. They spend so much of their time barreling forward at full throttle without giving themselves a moment to reflect. But this is ten minutes at least, and not in a hotel or a venue or a practice room. Just the two of them out in the world they're touring but rarely see as much as they'd like.

He fights back a smile - Brett really is more sentimental when he's tired.

They say their goodbyes to the group and Eddy can't help but put his hand on the small of Brett's back when they turn to walk down the street. "Lead the way."

It may be cold, but it is nice. It's late enough that the Boston streets are mostly empty, lights and wreaths and decorations dotting the storefronts and townhomes they pass even though it's not yet December. They don't get to spend the Christmas season in cold climates and it feels special to experience it for once, their breaths visible as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder along quiet streets.

"That went pretty well," Brett says, and Eddy laughs at the understatement.

"I'd say so. It's been a good year."

"Yeah." Eddy looks down at Brett and he's got that expression again, pleased and unguarded and open in a way almost nobody gets to see. He meets Eddy's gaze with a smile that makes his heart catch. "Thank you."

The idea, now so present in Eddy's mind, suddenly becomes much more specific.

It's as simple as this: Eddy wants to kiss him. So he does.

Brett stills when their lips meet - not frozen or surprised, just accepting, letting himself be moved by skin upon skin. They sigh in tandem when he pulls back, foreheads touching but mouths only a breath apart, the warmth skittering across their faces in the cold.

Eddy tilts his head and when they come together again it's suddenly more. Brett's hands find the small of his back and press into his spine while Eddy brings his own to Brett's face, thumbs stroking his cheeks as he pulls him in closer. There's no awkwardness about it, no need to figure each other out or learn how to move together. It's like making music, just as easy as breathing. When Brett opens his mouth to press in deeper it makes Eddy shiver.

Later he'll think about what it meant to experience a moment where he found everything he ever wanted. But for now he just melts into it, drowns in the way Brett feels and tastes and strokes his tongue like he wants and it's impossible to keep any other thought in his head.

Their lips part again even though there's no other space between them, a thousand points of warmth where they're pressed together. Eddy's fingers play with the ends of Brett's hair. He doesn't open his eyes but he can feel Brett smile against his mouth and they both laugh quietly, breathless and happy and flying.

Brett leans in again, initiating the kiss this time. It's sweet at first, light and playful but for just a moment he pushes up on his toes and sweeps in deep with his tongue and for that split-second Eddy feels like he's on fire. Brett backs off just as quickly, pressing a few soft pecks to his lips before reaching up and taking Eddy's hand from his face, threading their fingers together as he steps back.

They walk hand-in-hand the rest of the way, strings of lights decorating their path.

Chapter Text

6.

"What made you finally go for it?" Brett asks a few weeks later. They're both boneless and sated amongst rumpled bedcovers, the air conditioning cooling the last traces of sweat from their skin.

Eddy groans and buries his face into the pillow, still coming down from the endorphin rush. "We just did that and now you want to talk about feelings?" There's no heat behind his words, but he's struggling to get his brain back online.

"Honestly, I didn't know that was even possible." Brett sighs, sounding satisfied and slightly delirious. "You keep surprising me, damn."

Eddy turns his head to peer over at Brett and grins, taking in the wild state of his hair and grinning even wider knowing he's the one who caused it. He reaches over to muss it even further. "There's more where that came from. I've got lots of ideas."

Brett props up on his elbow, resting his cheek in one hand with a sudden realization. He smirks. "You've got a list, don't you?"

"...no."

"Where is it? I want to see, maybe I can add a few - "

"Shut up, oh my god." They're both laughing as Eddy swats at Brett's shoulder and settles on his stomach, resting his chin on his crossed forearms.

"I am curious, though."

"About the list?"

Brett's eyebrows shoot up, a victorious glint in his eye. "So there really is a list." He ignores Eddy's eyeroll, seemingly delighted at this development. "Now that you mention it, yeah. Not what I want to know right now, though."

Eddy pauses, considering. "What made me go for it?"

Brett's not teasing anymore, the corners of his lips settled into a small but genuine smile. "Yeah."

"I hadn't been sitting on it for very long, actually," he admits. "I never let myself even think about it until that night in Boston."

Brett's eyes grow huge. "Seriously?"

He chuckles. "It's not like that, exactly. I knew I loved you" - it's such a thrill to say those words in this context, to watch the reflexive smile he gets in response - "I just never thought it could be this." He shrugs. "I figured it out in the restaurant."

Brett hums, impressed. "So it only took you an hour from deciding you wanted to kiss me to actually doing it? That might be a record for you."

It's Eddy's turn to smirk. "Oh, I wanted to do a lot more than just kiss you."

"I'm well aware of that at this point, thank you." He laughs a little, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the sheets. "You figured it out faster than me. If I'd gotten any sleep I probably wouldn't have spent the whole tour with my head up my ass." His eyes lift up to meet Eddy's. "Turned out all right, though." And then: "Love you, too."

Eddy closes his eyes, taking a moment to soak in the words.

"Now about that list - "

"Goddammit." He flops back to the pillow with a groan. Then he actually thinks about it. "Just - just give me a few minutes, all right? You're more athletic than I thought."

Brett's laugh is long, loud, and music to his ears.

Chapter Text

7.

30 November 2020

It's just a simple aside made while they're filming a video, but Eddy latches onto it instantly. The words flash on a giant neon sign in his mind.

He doesn't add it to his list or jot it down in his notebook. He doesn't need to, because he goes into action the moment the camera shuts off.

He starts with a text, a hurried hey, can i get your opinion on something real quick? The response is quick and affirmative. He makes more typos than usual but can't be bothered to correct them, too excited to put it in words, to begin to manifest it.

He hits "send" too quickly and adds another - what do u think? And he waits.

It takes all of twenty seconds to get an answer, and the long string of heart-eyes emojis he receives makes him laugh. More messages follow, one right after the other.

I think it's perfect.

I can help if you need it.

Let me make a few phone calls.

When? Do you have a time frame?

Take pictures for me.

On December 20th, Eddy finally clues Brett in. Just a little.

"Just so you know, you're getting your Christmas present early this year."

"Really?" Brett looks amused. "Must be pretty good if you can't wait a few extra days to give it to me."

"I can't exactly wrap it in a box. Just be ready to go out on Wednesday night. And wear something nice," he adds.

Brett's amusement morphs to intrigue. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." They pre-empt their cell phones with a perfectly in-unison shut up, Siri.

He presses further. "Where are we going?"

"Wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?" Eddy leans down to brush his lips over Brett's forehead. "Trust me, you'll like it."

"That certain, eh?"

Eddy can't help but grin. "Well, it is your idea."

Brett is too baffled to even ask.

"I feel like I'm being kidnapped," Brett deadpans as Eddy helps him out of the back of the Uber and straightens the blindfold he'd put over his eyes for the ride.

"You can take it off in a minute," Eddy promises. "We're here, I just have to walk you inside. One second, I've got something in the - " he motions to the driver to pop the trunk and removes the items he'd placed there earlier. He slings one over his shoulder and carries the other with his right hand, leaving his left free to slide around Brett's waist.

Brett falls quiet as he's led inside, steered by Eddy's arm and occasional instructions - there's a set of stairs here, last one, to the right, almost there, I've got you.

When they reach their destination, Eddy takes a long look at their surroundings and finds himself at a loss for words. He'd been so focused on accomplishing his goal he hadn't considered how he would feel once it happened. He swallows quickly and releases his hold on Brett, setting the cases he'd carried on the floor next to them.

"Is this it? Can I look now?" Brett asks, bouncing on his toes in anticipation. Eddy loves him so much.

"Let me do it." He reaches around Brett's head, loosening the knot in the fabric and letting his fingertips brush over the shell of his ear just to watch the involuntary shiver it causes. "Eyes closed when I take this off, okay? I'll tell you when to open them."

Brett hums his assent and dutifully keeps them shut while Eddy sets the fabric aside and retrieves Brett's glasses from the case in his front pocket. Once they're returned to his face, Eddy steps close behind him, resting his hands on his shoulders.

"Now," he whispers.

It takes a moment for Brett to register where they are, and Eddy knows the exact second it happens from his sudden intake of breath.

He waits while Brett takes it in. Rows of empty seats stretch in front of them, farther and farther back until he has to lift his head to absorb the full scale of it - tiered balconies that rise high into the back of the building and curve gracefully around them on either side. His gaze follows Brett's as it climbs upward, the domed ceiling and chandelier impossibly huge overhead. If the colors weren't so rich, the lighting not so warm, it'd be easy to feel small on such a stage.

"Esplanade," Brett breathes out. "How did you - why did you - " he stutters, stunned.

"I brought our violins." he tells him, and Brett looks down to the cases near their feet.

"What - "

"You said we should try our new ones in a concert hall, remember?"

He remembers. From this angle Eddy can see just enough of Brett's face to watch his features soften in realization, and when he leans his weight back on a long exhale, he wraps his arms around Brett's waist to hold him up.

"Eddy."

He props his chin on Brett's shoulder, sighing when warm hands slide over his own, clasped together in front of them. They just breathe for awhile, wrapped up in each other while their eyes roam the venue, appreciating all the details they never had time to explore during the chaos of a show.

Brett eventually laughs, warm and low. It's one of Eddy's favorite noises and it sounds even better reverberating through the hall. "I can't believe you."

Eddy smiles against Brett's temple. "Merry Christmas."

"I love you."

Eddy's reminded of another time Brett said those words years ago, arms wrapped around each other on a darkened city street. There are no cameras now, though, no livestream, just the two of them. He kisses the soft skin beneath Brett's ear. "I love you, too. Now play something for me."

Brett laughs again and untangles himself from Eddy's embrace. He hands over Eddy's violin case before reaching for his own. "C'mon, warm up with me."

He's barely touched his bow to the A string when he stops and looks up. "You fucker. I have to give you a present in two days and there's no way it's going to top this."

Eddy holds in his chuckle long enough to finish tuning. "To be fair, this is as much a present for me as it is for you," he points out, even though they both know it's a lie. "I want to play, too."

"Ah, the truth comes out." Brett starts up a scale but halts midway when another thought occurs to him. "Eddy," he says, suddenly quiet. "This is amazing. But we've booked this place before, I know it costs a fortune  - "

"Not if you've got connections," Eddy interrupts, enjoying the astonishment on Brett's face because they barely even have a proper manager let alone people who can pull strings for them. "All the shows have been cancelled anyway, so the rates dropped a lot." He shrugs. "And Hilary may have put in a word, too."

"Hilary? Wait, you - " Brett finally gives up and just shakes his head with a fond smile. "I really can't believe you."

Eddy can't help himself - he steps in close for a kiss, a soft, fleeting thing that warms him to the tips of his toes. "Enough stalling. Let's play."

Their warm-up is rushed and insufficient and neither of them care, because as good as their new instruments sound at home it can't touch the way they ring through the hall, warm and loud and sweet. They start with Bach, and when Brett's violin joins his he realizes just how badly he'd missed performing onstage. It's such an integral part of who he is, what he loves, and what he's meant to do that his soul had ached for it.

He knows Brett is feeling it, too. They lock eyes even more than usual and the piece becomes joyful and exhilarating while they play for an audience of only themselves. They've never sounded better.

Navarra comes next, of course. They attempt Ysaye even though neither of them can really remember it, and they give up after 90 seconds of melodic and rhythmic disaster that sends them into fits of laughter.

"You still need to play for me," he reminds Brett once they pull themselves together. He sets his violin aside and hops down from the stage. "I want to hear how it sounds from the audience," he says, taking a seat in the middle of the first row.

"Third row's better," Brett points out, and he's right but Eddy wants to be close for this.

He shrugs and doesn't move from his spot. "What've you got?" He waits while Brett quickly re-tunes and thinks. It doesn't take long for him to decide, and he doesn't look up before he closes his eyes and begins to play. The first note barely sounds when Eddy's chest tightens in recognition.

Korngold.

Of course Brett chose this. Even when he's not using words he somehow always knows exactly what to say. Brett doesn't look at him, doesn't even open his eyes, and he doesn't need to. The notes are enough.

In high school Eddy thought this piece epitomized romance. He believes it now more than ever, the abstract idea of his teenage self now fully-realized on the stage in front of him. By the man in front of him. He leans back in his seat and lets his heart float along with the melody.

When the final notes echo and fade into silence he breathes deeply before looking up.

Brett smiles down at him fondly. "If you start crying I'm leaving."

Eddy grins. Romance is a bit different than he imagined back in high school. It's better.

At the end of the evening they take a selfie onstage, smiling so hugely their faces can hardly contain it. Eddy texts it to Hilary with a caption - Merry Christmas from your favorite 2nd violinists - and the moment his phone is safely in his pocket, Brett grabs him by the lapels and hauls him down until their mouths meet.

It momentarily throws him off balance and there's nothing soft or slow about the way Brett leans into it, how his hands slide into Eddy's hair and pull him down even more firmly, how he teases open his mouth and sweeps inside, the sudden heat of it sending sparks up his spine. Eddy gives himself over to it, pressing desperately at the small of Brett's back even though they can't possibly get any closer. It's just as thrilling as the first time, he'll never get tired of this -

He groans when Brett's teeth tug at his bottom lip and forces himself to break the kiss, pressing their foreheads together while they pant into each other's mouths. "We are not getting ourselves banned from this building," he says, if this doesn't stop right now -

"Right, yeah," Brett says, but the words are muffled against Eddy's jaw and his mouth slides up further, dragging a scorching trail to the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He stills and breathes in once, twice against Eddy's skin, seeming to remember himself and it's a good thing he does because Eddy is gone - "Let's get out of here."

They don't see the text Hilary sends back - another string of heart emojis and kind holiday wishes - until the next morning. They're a bit busy.

Brett does, in fact, manage to top Eddy's present.

He gives it to him on Christmas morning before they even get out of bed, only half-awake and still snuggled under the covers. It's not wrapped and there's no fanfare about it - Brett simply takes his hand and slides the ring on without a word, just a soft smile and a questioning eyebrow.

Eddy isn't bothered by the one-upmanship. He just says yes.

*