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The concert ended; the curtains dropped; the orchestra drifted out of Carnegie Hall.
But the soloist remained in his dressing room, pinned against the locked door by the assistant conductor.
“You changed it,” accused the conductor.
“Wasn’t that the way you wanted it?” inquired the soloist.
“You fucking brat.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
The soloist smirked provocatively, drawing a harsh curse from the young conductor.
But wait, why was the soloist’s face so flushed?
Eddy placed a hand under Brett’s chin and tilted it up, his thumb just grazing Brett’s lips. Brett’s smirk grew; his tongue darted out and he licked at Eddy’s finger like a small kitten.
And that's when Eddy lost it. He leaned down and punished those smirking lips with a hot, bruising kiss.
*
Brett Yang can be difficult. That’s what the Maestro told Eddy before sending him off to the airport.
But the Maestro had a lot of opinions that Eddy didn’t agree with, and Brett seemed innocuous enough, greeting Eddy with a toothy smile and a friendly hi . Maybe it was because Brett wasn’t much older than himself, or maybe it was because Brett looked extra casual in his wrinkled t-shirt and shorts, but Eddy didn’t feel as nervy around him as he often did around other soloists.
Of course, Brett did hand him all the luggage right away, but Brett was pretty famous, so Eddy supposed that was all right.
“So you’re K—’s assistant.”
“Well, assistant conductor,” Eddy corrected. “Not like, administrative assistant.”
From the rearview mirror, Eddy saw Brett make a funny face at him.
“I didn’t know assistant conductors also had to be chauffeurs.”
Eddy laughed dryly. This wasn’t usually his job. Soloists these days, especially the young ones, were usually happy to grab their own taxis. Only Brett had requested car service.
“We don’t have enough budget for real chauffeurs, I guess.”
“Yeah,” said Brett, “I can tell from the car. And your outfit. What is that, like Zara or something?”
Eddy gripped his steering wheel tight. By the time he came up with a retort though, Brett had already fallen asleep in the back seat.
*
Brett and the Maestro greeted each other like old friends, which made sense, since the Maestro was the one who had effectively discovered Brett from the backwaters of Australia all those years ago.
“Eddy’s from Australia too,” the Maestro volunteered. “He went to Queensland. You guys might have a special connection. That special Australian something, you know? So I thought I’d have him conduct rehearsals.”
Brett’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Now, now, no need to get riled up. It’s just rehearsal. Besides, Eddy’s going to be a big name soon. He won that big conducting competition, you know, and he got good reviews for his conducting at Tanglewood back when he was a student. I have full trust in him.”
“Sure. Let’s give it a go then, Eddy, yeah?” Brett said. There was something derisive in his voice that grated on Eddy’s nerves.
Eddy walked stiffly to the podium and waited for the orchestra to tune. A few of the players in the front observed him sympathetically, and the Maestro watched with a shit-eating grin from the audience.
Brett smiled. Or was it a smirk?
Eddy felt a ball of anger growing within as he raised the baton. He knew this concerto inside and out; had watched the Maestro conduct it for a dozen times now; and had studied it for hours on end the past week. He’d show Brett.
Brett stopped him ten bars in.
“It’s the tempo,” Brett remarked laconically. “I’m thinking faster.”
“It’s the tempo set by Brahms.”
“Sure. But I’m thinking faster.”
Eddy gripped his baton tighter.
“The orchestra practiced with this tempo….”
Brett’s lips curved into an amused smile. “Let’s try mine. Shall we start, Mr. Assistant Conductor?”
*
Walking out of an air-conditioned building on a sunny day in July was like walking into a steam bath. Eddy’s already hot temper rose a few degrees more. It didn’t help that in front of him meandered slowly a family of tourists that insisted on hogging the entire sidewalk, or that the cars in the late afternoon traffic jam were honking relentlessly in their futility.
Just shut up, he wanted to scream.
The third rehearsal had just ended, and it hadn’t gone any better than the first. Brett fought him from beginning to end: about the dynamics, the phrasing of the tutti, the entrance of the flutes, the way he fucking waved his baton …
“You should wave it with more confidence,” said Brett, batting his lashes playfully.
Well, fuck him.
Fuck him and his unsolicited advice. Fuck him and his ridiculous demands. Fuck him and his outrageous attitude; his offensive smirks; his backhanded insults that made you want to punch him; his intuitive feel for the music that was oddly compelling; his flawless, beautiful playing that you couldn’t quite rebuke; the undeniable passion that made you take him seriously, despite everything; the pretty twinkle in his eye when he knew he’d gotten under your skin, and the sexy flush on his cheeks when he fought you—
Wait a minute… Eddy frowned. He had a distinct feeling he’d somehow lost the narrative.
“Yo, Eddy!”
Eddy closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. It was that voice again. The sound of his nightmares.
Brett bounded up to him, just a ball of energy, and grinned. “I’m bored. What are you up to tonight?”
“Shouldn’t you be relaxing? The concert’s tomorrow.”
“How about you take me around the city?” Brett continued as if Eddy hadn’t spoken. “I haven’t been here for a few years. What’s new? I heard Hudson Yards is pretty nice.”
“I haven’t been,” Eddy said tightly. “You can go though. I’m going to study the score some more. Those changes you made today—”
“Chill dude. You’re not conducting the real thing. The Maestro’s got it down. Anyway, you’re supposed to be taking care of me while I’m in New York, and I say we go out and have some fun tonight. It’ll help me relax , as you say.”
“But I don’t want to—”
It was too late. Brett had already hailed a taxi and was pushing Eddy in.
*
Eddy didn’t have a lot of money and didn’t have a lot of time. With his pitifully meager salary, he was probably the walking definition of underpaid and overworked. He’d been in New York for three months now, and almost every waking moment was spent at Carnegie Hall.
There was certainly no opportunity for him to traipse through the luxury mall at Hudson Yards, trying on ten thousand dollar jackets and sniffing expensive colognes. Plus, lavish Spanish dinners with bread flown in from abroad? Unimaginable, frankly, for someone like Eddy who subsisted on a diet of chicken and rice from the local halal cart. And sipping wine at trendy bars by the river? Ha! Never …
Brett clinked his glass against Eddy’s and smiled at him. Not one of his usual smirks, but a soft, friendly smile, where his eyes curved into charming crescents behind his glasses. “It’s pretty nice here, hey?”
“It’s okay,” Eddy conceded.
He’d downed a few glasses at this point, and had shed some of his usual stiffness.
Brett, too, seemed less sharp than usual. He stood close to Eddy, almost too close for comfort. Eddy could sniff out the sweet wine on his breath, along with the exotic fragrance he’d spritzed on himself earlier that, in the heady summer night air, smelled oddly seductive. A warm breeze ruffled Brett’s hair; his eyes shined as bright as the neon lights flashing in the water. He looked almost ethereal, except that there lurked in his gaze just the slightest hint of desire.
“Hey, Eddy,” he said, leaning closer and peering up. His smooth, rounded cheeks were delightfully pink and there was a teasing lilt to his voice that bordered on erotic. “I’m tired.”
Eddy’s heart skipped a beat. Nervously, he asked. “Er. Should I call a car for you then?”
Brett pouted. He placed glass down and threw his slender arms around Eddy’s neck. “Or, you could offer to take me home~”
Eddy froze, rooted in place, entranced by the light in Brett’s eyes, those fluttering lashes, the speck of black in the iris. The other man’s pouting lips were tantalizingly close; if Eddy just leaned down ever so slightly, he could taste them.
He pushed Brett away. “I…we’d better not. The concert’s tomorrow.”
Brett’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head and mused, “Not enough, huh…”
Eddy didn’t ask him what he meant by that.
*
That night, Eddy crawled into his small bed feeling dizzyingly dissatisfied. The tiny basement apartment he’d rented was uncomfortably warm, and he fell into a hot, restless sleep riddled with bizarre, seedy dreams.
In those dreams, he slammed the door behind them, pushed Brett onto the bed, and kissed those smirking lips until they were red and swollen, until they couldn’t argue with him anymore, but could only cry his name sweetly as he trailed his lips down the pale neck and sucked on that enticing little mole peeking out at him now and then during rehearsals. Eddy , Brett would whisper breathlessly, as his body quivered in Eddy’s arms, and Eddy, unbearably frustrated, would ask, tell me what you want from me, and Brett would say—
Eddy woke up blearily to a call from the Maestro telling him to remember to wear his concert gear.
“You’re conducting tonight. Brett specifically requested. Didn’t he tell you?”
Ugh. Fuck him .
*
It was Eddy’s first real concert with a professional orchestra. His heart raced nervously and his hands shook a little. He was trying to remember all the little changes he’d had to make to accommodate Brett, and they were getting all muddled in his head.
Suddenly, a cool hand grasped his and gave it a light squeeze. There was Brett himself, peering at him with a light grin. “Relax, Eddy.”
“But I don’t know if…”
“You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
As if Brett’s words held some kind of magic, Eddy felt his heart settle back in place, felt a renewed sense of calm. “…Okay…”
The renewed sense of calm lasted about two pages.
And then, Brett Yang glimpsed at him from the corner of his eye, gave him a grin full of mischief that just about made his heart stop, and changed things up again. In the damn concert!
Fuck him.
It was a good thing Eddy had his back to the audience, because he was pretty sure his expression was screaming what the fuck . He might even have said that out loud, except he didn’t have time, because he was too busy trying to adjust, and accommodate, make sense of the orchestra and make sense of Brett. He wasn’t recreating a rehearsal, but making music in real time, feeling along with all of his senses, as Brett pulled him, however unwilling, to the edge of what was possible.
Yet somehow, miracle of all miracles, that worked.
In the midst of all that chaos, he and Brett gropingly found each other’s pulse and, breaths in tandem, they played out Brahms’ exquisite romance as if it were uniquely their own.
*
So here they were now, entangled against the door, high on euphoria, the audience’s standing ovation still ringing in their ears.
Brett let out a small gasp of pain as Eddy bit into his shoulder. “Hurts,” he whined.
“That’s what you get for being a brat,” Eddy replied harshly.
In truth though, Eddy wasn’t even sure what he was saying, not with Brett splayed under him like this, his legs wrapped around Eddy’s waist, his open shirt sliding off his ivory shoulder, his dark eyes glazed with lust, and his pink lips half parted, crying out for Eddy.
“ Eddy~ , please…”
“Tell me what you want from me.”
Brett’s slender, beautiful fingers grasped Eddy’s shirt and pulled him close. He leaned towards Eddy’s ear and whispered, “Eddy, fuck me.”
Well.
*
Afterwards, Brett nestled lazily against Eddy with a cozy smugness, not unlike a cat that’d finally gotten his claw on a pesky little mouse.
“I’m going to Berlin next,” he said. “Come with.”
Eddy shook his head. Brett frowned in annoyance. “Why not? You can’t mean to say you want to waste another year here. Come with me, and I can make a name for you in no time.”
“No,” said Eddy. “I can make a name for myself, thank you.”
“ Eddy~ ”
Eddy smiled and kissed Brett on his adorably scrunched up nose. “You’ll just have to wait for me.” Because Eddy didn’t like taking shortcuts in life, but also because he didn’t want to make it too easy for this self-satisfied little cat. For toying with Eddy, he should have to suffer at least a little bit.
“Fine, you asshole. But Eddy,” said Brett, “Why does it seem like your dick is still hard…?”
Fuck.
* * *
It was two years later, and through some combination of talent, luck and tireless hard work, Eddy had climbed his way to permanent post at the Boston Symphony Orchestra.
On a hot summer day in July, his assistant conductor knocked on his door and, with deep embarrassment, informed him that their soloist had insisted, quite vociferously, that the maestro personally pick him up at the airport.
Eddy raised a brow and chuckled to himself.
Some things hadn’t changed.