Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's so warm. The temperature of the room is just right, teetering between the frigidity of Antarctica and the blissful coolness of a lake in the summer.

Brett sighs under the blanket, feels himself melt into the soft sheets beneath. He can feel the sunlight through his eyes, but it's too comfortable to leave. So he stays, just a few more minutes.

When his mother knocks on his door, three harsh, rapid, knocks, he knows it's noon.

" BRETT YANG. GET OFF THE BED THIS SECOND, YOU LAZY BUM."

He winces under the cover of the blanket, and he knows he can't escape any longer.

-

It's archery first thing in the morning, and Brett thinks his muscles have jellified into nothingness. The tutor is merciless, and the three hundred pushups he's done seem to have nothing to do with the bow and arrow at all. He's been in the class for nine months and the only progress he's made is his sudden ability to burp on will, and that has  nothing  to do with archery.

He'd rather be playing the violin, he concludes in the middle of another sit-up. Brett only started it recently, but it's the most wonderful thing that's crossed his path. The only sound he can squeeze out of it is a harsh screech that sounds uncannily like a rubber duck getting crushed by a carriage, but it'll be worth the hours of practise if he can ever reach the standards of the salt merchant's son, who he passed by the other day busking.

It was beautiful, if Brett's sudden passion for the violin doesn't prove it already. Brett has no clue what the piece he was playing was named, even after asking, only that it's by someone whose name starts with 'day' and ends with a word that Brett's pretty sure he's not old enough to say.

He'd found himself entranced, foolishly intrigued by the boy making music out of a piece of wood at the corner of the square, right next to his father's stall. The boy had looked no older than Brett himself, but a brown cloth wrapped over his face hid whatever features lay below it. Brett found himself curious as to what was under the mask, but he figured the music was enough to sate his curiosity. 

Brett wondered why there weren't flocks of equally entranced listeners surrounding him, but he supposed he simply had better taste than the rest. It wasn't as though Brett hadn't heard  music  before, but this, this was new. Hearing it in person, the ebb and flow of the chords, sometimes dyed in vicious reds or soaked in cool blues, icy cold yet burning in his ears.

And even now, stuck in the present with his sweaty palms and dying biceps, he can still remember the tune in his head. It doesn't really fit, somehow, even after running through four different keys in his head, but the general flow of the notes rings like cool water through his head and distracts him from the soreness in his arms.

-

It was inevitable, Brett insists to himself. He couldn't help it.

Couldn't help what, you may ask?

Well......

That is......

Couldn't help but let his legs carry him back to the square, couldn't help but find himself cross-legged and starry-eyed, staring intently at the violinist who'd enraptured him with his talent.

This would induce a scolding from his mother, that was for sure. Something along the lines of,  "Brett. Yang. You are not to step a single FOOT outside this castle for the next seven years. I'll have your head myself if you do."  or,  "Do you know how to abide by the rules? It seems not, so you'll be grounded for the next decade of your life."

He can hear it already, the fury in her voice.

But he can also hear, clearer than ever, sweet and soft in his ears, the warm tremolo of a bow against a string, humming enthrallingly in his ears. If he closes his eyes, ignores the bustle around him, he can almost imagine that it's just him and the violinist, stranded on a plain of music, a performance for Brett and Brett alone.

And it's freeing.

His heart feels like it's melted into a puddle of goo, his spirit feels weightless and the double stops feel like ambrosia to his bleeding soul. 

He wonders if the violinist knows how much relief he's given Brett, really. Or if he's even noticed the heir of the kingdom sitting, hunched and leaning on one elbow, sitting just metres away from him.

It annoys Brett, just a little tickle, when he still pays no attention to Brett after three more pieces. His eyes have been closed shut throughout, but his body rocks with all the dedication of a man in heated passion. 

 Brett has half a mind to go and poke him himself, but he's saved the effort when the music pauses in the middle of the passage and he catches the musician staring at Brett, astonishment written in the bulge of his eyes.  Aha,  Brett thinks to himself. 

"I- you- who- heir-" The boy stutters, and the nervous tremble in his voice is such a glaring contrast to the confidence in his playing that Brett's sure he's gotten whiplash from it.

"Hey." He gives what he hopes is a warm smile, trying to bury the worry that he's scared the boy.

"Uh- I-" The boy tears off the cloth masking his face, and tries again. "H-Hello."

His cheeks are dusted pink, and Brett thinks it's beautiful.

"Your playing," Brett begins, and he's not sure if he'll find the right words to describe it. "It was magical."

It seems that those were the right words, if the growing flush creeping up the boy's cheeks are any testament to it.

"Th-Thank you." The boy fidgets a little.

"I'm Brett. What's your name?"  Wow. Real smooth, Brett. Not a dry conversation starter at all.

"I know your name's Brett," The boy says with a chuckle, before covering his mouth as though afraid that line was too rude. When Brett only responds with a laugh and a smile, he continues.

"I'm Eddy. Eddy Chen."

That's a pretty name.

"Err... thank you...?"

Dang it, did he say that out loud?

"...yes?"

.....goddammit.

Chapter Text

Aaaaand. Brett was right.

“BRETT YANG. IF THAT’S YOU SITTING ON THE FLOOR, I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD MYSELF.”

It wasn’t as though he didn’t expect it, really. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little miffed by his mother’s shouting, audible through the square and raising heads at the commotion.

Brett ducks his head down in shame, but he catches Eddy wrapping his mask around his face and retreating to the back of their stall, out of sight of his mother, likely intimidated by the Queen of the kingdom. It's a shame, for he was planning to converse a little longer with him. Ah, well, guess it'll have to wait.

-

It's a week later before he can even step out of the castle without being eyed suspiciously by his mother. 

And it takes another week before he, once again, finds himself taking hurried footsteps back to the square. He's blessed with the music flowing down the streets before he can even see Eddy, and it entices him more than he'd admit. 

Eddy sees him early this time, pauses his playing before waving a hand in greeting. He looks around nervously right after, as though in fear of being spotted by someone. Ah, yes. His mother.

"She's out fishing with my father, and she'll only be back tomorrow." Brett waves his hand in a noncommittal gesture of dismissal, hoping to quell Eddy's worries.

"...a-alright. You should listen to your mother, though." Eddy's tone is soft, nearly inaudible under the din of the market. "She raised you, after all."

Well. 

"Uhh... okay." Brett hesitates a little. "It probably doesn't help that I should be having lessons now, does it?"

Eddy's eyes widen in shock and disbelief, and Brett's pretty sure that's the most emotion he's ever seen on his face.

"No! Go back to the castle! What are you doing here?" Eddy's brow is furrowed, and something in Brett wants to smoothen out the creases in Eddy's forehead.

"But-"

He's cut off by Eddy putting his violin down and pushing him in the general direction of the palace. 

"Hey!" Brett's tone is indignant as he tries to wiggle out of Eddy's hold on his arm, but Eddy's stronger than he is. 

Well. Looks like the three-hundred pushups were useless after all.

"Are you even older than me?" Brett tries to look down on Eddy to assert his dominance. Eddy deadpans him with an expression that reads,  don't even try.  Dang Eddy's taller-than-him height.

"I'm fourteen this year." Eddy puffs out his chest a little, as though proud to be a teenager.

"HAH! I'm  fifteen  this year, you insolent little brat. Kneel beneath my feet, you infant!"

Brett's cackles are loud, and some of the townspeople look over in displeasure. They know it's the Yang son, but noise is noise to the townsfolk. 

"Uhh...." Eddy looks at his feet a little, shuffling his hands back to his sides. "Do you want me to?"

"What?" Brett supposes that the look of horror on his face says it all. "Of course not! Don't ever do that for anyone."

"Oh. Okay." Eddy's shoulders sag in relief, and Brett wonders how dense Eddy is.

"We're friends," Brett starts, voice confident and clear, as though it were set in stone. "I'd never ask that of you."

Brett thinks he's hallucinating when he sees little droplets form on the edges of Eddy's eyes, and he nearly gets a heart attack when Eddy starts to sniffle and rubs his eyes as though to hide his tears.

"Woah, woah. You okay?" Brett tries to put on his most consoling tone, though he's never really had experience with his kind of thing. "It's okay, hey."

He smooths his hand over Eddy's hair, and it's soft.

Eddy's still sniffling a little, and when he leans forward, it feels instinctive to tuck his head under Brett's chin, sandwiched comfortably between his shoulder and neck.

It's a little awkward because of Eddy's height, but the warmth that blooms out of nowhere in Brett's chest is worth it.

"It's- hic- It's just that I've- hic- never been called a friend before." 

Brett wants to smother Eddy in forehead kisses and words of consolation right then and there, and it's so unfamiliar it makes him wonder what Eddy's done to him.

"Oh." Brett's words are soft to his own ears, and he figures no more words are needed for this conversation.

-

Brett wonders how he's gotten into this situation. Then he remembers Eddy’s with him, and he knows there's nothing he'd change about it.

It turned out that Eddy's father, too, was away for the next fortnight, so Brett took the leap of faith and invited him over to the castle.

It was worth it, he decided, to see the eager grin that lit Eddy's face up at the offer. He'd hesitated to say yes at first, cautious of Brett's parents, but eventually gave in, unable to resist the idea of spending a night with his new friend.

And now, they're huddled in Brett's room, both carrying their violins, with Eddy thumbing through his scores for duets with all the adeptness of a trained professional. Brett's lucky that he knows the secret passages into the castle, lest he was caught smuggling in a person by the housemaids.

"Aha! Found it."

Brett's awaken from his daydreams by Eddy's joyous voice, and he looks over Eddy's shoulder to see what he's found.

The words at the top read,  Navarra by Sarasate , and he thinks it's a beautiful name. And with Eddy choosing it, he knows it'll be a beautiful piece, too.

-

Brett’s instincts are normally right, but this time, they hit the nail on the head uncannily accurately.

The piece - Navarra - is everything he’s ever wanted and more. Even with his sub-par violin skills and admittedly shaky bow, he can hear from the first ringing note, that the adrenaline pumping through his veins won’t be leaving anytime soon.

It’s entrancing and thrilling at times, building tense suspense at others, majestic and grand at the loudest parts, double stops and octaves and trills flowing like rivers through sloping valleys and hued sunsets.

Even amidst the wonderful chaos, of the piece, Brett can hear, undoubtedly, Eddy’s talent, shining through the music and making the piece brilliant in every way possible. He can see it in the way Eddy’s wrist follows the bow like the motions of a snake charmer, in Eddy’s stunted spiccato, in the way his eyes slid shut at the most beautiful parts of the piece as though he were one with the music itself.

It’s an easy conclusion for Brett to come to, when they’re both heaving and exhausted after the piece, that Eddy’s beautiful when he plays. It isn’t the dashing, striking kind of beauty, but the undeniable kind that lies in the beauty of ice-capped mountains on a winter day, or cherry blossoms falling in spring. It’s in the curve of his shoulders aligning with the bow, the glide of his body with the phrases, the warmth in the tone of the violin. It isn’t something that can be argued with, irrefutable in all the ways that matter.

He sees it, bright and beautiful, when they reach the climax, notes climbing impossibly high and his mind clearer than day. There’s a soft smile breaking across Eddy’s face, and Brett’s bow nearly slips at the sight.

It’s nighttime when they stop playing, and they’re slumped like heaps of potato sacks with their violins tucked safely in their cases.

Brett’s fully prepared to fall asleep then and there, but Eddy lugs him to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Eddy emerges wearing navy half-moon pyjamas that he’s borrowed from Brett, and Brett with matching star-dotted ones. Brett makes a mental note to gift Eddy these pyjamas in the morning - his looks of excitement at them are utterly gratifying to see.

When Brett pats the side of his bed in a ‘come here’ gesture, Eddy looks mortified and shakes his head, insisting that  no, I’m not worthy of that, you’re the prince and it’s rude,  and he's replied by Brett pulling him onto the bed against his protests and trapping Eddy with a blanket, murmuring that  no, you’re worth much more than that.

It takes little more than two seconds for Brett to fall asleep, swallowed by the comfort of having a warm body by his side - albeit not in contact - and a blanket on his body.

He doesn't notice, though, that Eddy's breaths only even out until much later. 

An hour later, Eddy's still restless, unable to rest his mind in an unfamiliar bed, until he turns to face Brett's figure.

His fingers reach out involuntarily, searching for skin till they're mere millimetres from brushing against Brett's forehead, but they're retracted before he gives in, and he falls asleep curled towards the silhouette of the sleeping boy wearing half-moon pyjamas.