Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Why are you doing that?"

Eddy's bow skids at the sudden question. He looks up to the teacher. "Doing what?"

"You don't know?"

The condescension in the old man's voice is palpable. Eddy's heart sinks. He doesn't know, but the teacher expects him to, and anything he responds with will only provide more ammunition for the rant he knows is brewing. The rant that will be directed at him, because how could he not know? How could he be so stupid as to not know?

He's been through this scene enough times in the last few months to know how it ends, though. The only option is to not answer, brace himself, and hope whatever's coming is mercifully brief.

The exasperated sigh he receives is right on cue. "Why are you staring at the bridge? You look like a statue when you play."

He swallows. Because in my last lesson, I was ordered to stare at the bridge and paid 500 Euro for the pleasure. "I - I'm looking at my contact point."

The instant the words leave his mouth, he knows it's the wrong answer. Another familiar part of the script.

"Why do you need to look at your contact point? What, do you think blind people can't play the violin? That's ridiculous. It creates tension in your neck - "

Eddy closes his eyes and weathers the storm.

He stares at the text from his sister on the ride back from the lesson.

How'd it go?

The Uber jolts over a pothole as he types out a response and lets his thumb hover over the "send" button.

I've spent so much money and haven't learned anything

He quickly deletes it and begins again.

I can't seem to do anything right

Backspace. Another try.

I don't want to do this anymore

He exhales and stares at the words on his phone, letting them sit for a moment. He deletes that, too. It's too dangerous a thought to dwell on.

Challenging.

It's not a lie. He sends it and turns off his notifications.

He stares blankly out the window for the rest of the ride. It's not yet 5 p.m. and the sun has already set, the last gasps of twilight fading fast. He arrived in Bucharest a few days ago but hasn't taken the chance to see the city yet - he doesn't have any friends or acquaintances here, and English isn't as widely spoken as it was in Germany. Those are the excuses he makes for himself.

The city is beautiful. He feels nothing when he takes it all in, too effectively beaten down by his excursion to care. One exorbitantly expensive lesson after another has taught him that the best teachers in the world don't think he's worthy enough to be their student. He could write off one encounter as a personality clash; a simple mismatch between a teacher's style and his own. It's to be expected. But the consistent, demoralizing theme from educators all over Europe has been one of conflicting, useless advice and a very clear message that he was a waste of their time.

He was the best violinist at uni, but he also knew he was a big fish in a small pond. That was the whole point of this trip; to learn from the best, and one by one they took his hard-earned money and never bothered to help.

His violin case feels heavy as he steps to the sidewalk, staring up at the building that's his home for the next week. It's student housing, thankfully affordable in comparison to everywhere else he's stayed so far. He trudges up the stairs to the third floor. The place should be bustling with activity, the sound of strings and horns and woodwinds floating in the air, but the semester is over for winter break and everyone's gone home until the new year.

It is nice, he supposes when he steps inside and sheds his coat, that he can play into odd hours of the night without disturbing anyone. He opens his case and stares down at his instrument, considering. He has one more lesson four days from now. It seemed like a good idea at the time to schedule it that way, to give himself a few days to prepare for the first meeting and another few after to absorb all he'd been taught, implement it, and follow up for additional fine-tuning.

He looks at his violin with dread. The advice he'd gotten, such as it was, was at least simple enough: don't look at his contact point. He sighs and reaches for his bow.

Prokofiev has never been a struggle for him, always his best piece and the performances he'd been most proud of. Now it sounds foreign to his ears, his approach and technique so picked-apart that his playing doesn't feel like his own.

He very pointedly does not look at the bridge and powers through it. It's terrible.

He tries again, starts and stops. "Fuck." This isn't helpful either, this type of practice, and he plays through a G minor scale in frustration, trying to find something to keep him going. He closes his eyes and thinks. His sister always told him to step away from a piece when he felt stuck, to reset by playing something comfortable and easy instead. Something he liked.

He wishes he had his piano, but it's an easy choice.

He's never played Clair de Lune for a teacher and he never will. He loves it too much. He doesn't dare subject it to the endless analysis and study it would take to prepare the piece for a professional performance; it belongs to him and him only. It feels different as he draws out the sound, less soothing and more melancholy than his typical interpretation, but for a few minutes he relaxes and lets himself speak with his own voice. It's a bit rough from disuse but genuine all the same.

He glisses into the final note and finds it effortlessly, his vibrato coming naturally for once. He extends the sound, using every last millimeter of bow before lifting it from the strings. It's the best he'll be able to do tonight. He should stop; end on a positive note.

He's unwinding his bow when a knock at the door startles him.

He glances at the clock. It's barely 6:30; not nearly late enough for a neighbor to complain about the noise. He doesn't even have any neighbors, as far as he knows. There's no one on the other side of the peephole, but he opens the door anyway to confirm he's alone, confused until his eyes fall near his feet.

A letter sits on his doorstep. The envelope is blank on the outside, no recipient or sender indicated. He retrieves it and looks around once more. "Hello?" The hallway is deathly quiet, no echoing steps in the stairwell to indicate the retreat of whoever knocked.

Eddy turns the envelope over in his hands. The stationery is heavy and cream-colored; he has no idea about these things but it feels expensive. Old-fashioned. There's even a seal, deep red wax stamped with a symbol that looks vaguely familiar but he can't quite place. He double-checks the deadbolt on his way back in and peers out the living room window. A lone couple strolls down the street below, wrapped up in each other and oblivious to the world. A few stray cars roll by but it's otherwise empty.

He feels a bit silly fetching a knife from the kitchen to open the letter, but ripping it open like a cheap, mass-produced birthday card doesn't feel like an option. Disrespectful, almost. The cursive script is a work of art, rich as the paper it's written upon.

"A humble request to the violinist:

J.S. Bach - Sonata no. 1 in G-minor. Adagio."

Two simple lines on a single sheet of paper. No signature.

He reads them over and over, the beautiful calligraphy, the personal request that took time and effort to compose and deliver. Proof that his playing is noticed. His shoulders sag, the long-coiled tension releasing just a tiny bit. His breath shakes when he exhales.

Someone heard him play, appreciated it, and wants to hear more. The words grow blurry on the page and he swipes at his eyes, laughing to himself at his reaction. It's utterly ridiculous. He's utterly ridiculous, embarrassed to be so desperate for any kind of approval.

And yet.

He glances at his instrument, abandoned on the table, then back to the letter to read once again. Then twice, then a third time.

He folds the paper carefully, neatly sets it aside, and returns to his violin to play. Solo Bach. Adagio.

For once, someone is listening.

~///~

Chapter Text

Eddy has trouble sleeping that night. It's the best kind of insomnia, his body buzzing and energized in a way he hasn't experienced in far too long.

Even the apartment looks different when he gets up in the morning, brighter and less dingy. He stumbles to the kitchen to make coffee and grins when he looks at the letter still sitting on the counter. He reaches to read it again while he waits for the kettle, but something makes him glance to the door. He's struck by an impulse, sudden and nonsensical, that something waits for him on the other side.

Look. The word enters his mind, clear and persuasive, compelling him to move. He checks the peephole as he unlatches the lock; the hallway is empty as expected.

Another letter waits on his doorstep, the wax seal catching the light.

He snatches it up and makes a beeline for the kitchen, once again grabbing a knife but opening it with far less finesse than the night before. The handwriting is the same. Beautiful, precise, and unhurried.

Your Bach is stunning. Thank you. May I request another, if it is in your repertoire?

F. Kreisler - Liebesleid.

I'm only available to listen in the evenings, but if you play after dark, I promise I will hear it.

No signature, just like before. The kettle whistles behind him, forgotten.

All the fantastical stories about famous musicians and composers he'd learned throughout the years swirl through his mind. Mozart and Salieri's feud, Paganini's pact with the devil, Tchaikovsky's mysterious death. Eddy enjoys the legends but never took them at face value (especially Paganini's, for obvious reasons). He assumed most were inflated mythos, bloated rumors and intrigue exaggerated over time through multiple re-tellings.

Now he finds himself in the middle of his own. He wouldn't believe it if it were told to him by someone else.

Who are you? He studies the graceful swell of ink on paper and considers the possibilities.

He hasn't seen another soul in the building or heard another instrument since he arrived. It's probably not a student, unless it's someone with an electric piano and an extreme dedication to always keeping headphones plugged into it. The idea of someone his age even owning fancy stationery, let alone sending beautiful handwritten letters, seems unlikely.

There aren't many other options. The landlord? He hopes not, considering the man's extremely limited English and tendency to be drunkenly slumped over the desk in the building's front office. Doubtful.

A neighbor in the adjacent building? Maybe. Someone passing by on the sidewalk below, or waiting at the bus stop across the street as he practiced? No, that'd be impossible. He's three floors up and it's far too cold to leave the window open. He'd even had his mute on; the sound couldn't possibly have traveled that far and even if it did, it would have been muffled and distant. His violin can barely project as it is. He'd give anything to borrow that Degani again, just for the night.

The person, whoever it is, is clearly knowledgeable if they're requesting Kreisler.

Something about the stationery, seal, and handwriting reads to him as slightly masculine, but he can't be sure of that either. It's all so absurdly old-fashioned and formal. Romantic. Eddy smiles to himself for even indulging the thought when he realizes that if his admirer isn't a deranged creep, they're probably much, much older. A former musician, maybe, or one of those wealthy white-haired benefactors who donates absurd sums of money to music foundations and attends every concert in a luxury box just for the opportunity to fraternize with soloists at benefit galas. Not the worst type of fan to have, all things considered.

Eddy grins again. He has a fan. He turns off the kettle and returns to the letter. So. Liebesleid. He's somewhat familiar with the piece but hasn't ever played it himself, and the request was thoughtful enough to acknowledge that.

There are three days until his final lesson, all earmarked for refining his Prokofiev to a standard that won't offend his teacher. And… he doesn't care. He genuinely, truly doesn't. Another weight lifts as he allows the thought to grow louder in his mind.

He'll get torn to shreds no matter what he does, and in the end it doesn't even matter. He's done with his formal education, he's got his degree, he's not receiving a grade, and it's his own money. He's been so stuck in his student mindset he'd forgotten that now he can do whatever the hell he wants with his time, and he's wasted enough of it trying to please teachers who treat him as nothing more than an easy paycheck.

He grabs his iPad and searches for Kreisler on IMSLP, coffee a distant memory. He has about ten hours until sunset.

The piece comes far too easily. It's short and doesn't stretch him technically, but presents endless possibilities for interpretation he would typically spend weeks experimenting with. He decides not to listen to any recordings and settles on the style he wants almost immediately: spinning vibrato, lots of glissing, and exaggerated rubato.

Old-school all the way. He suspects his admirer, whoever it is, will like that.

(If he's being honest with himself – something he's done a lot today – there's also the petty satisfaction of playing in a style his professors would have hated.)

He finds a playfulness even with the melancholy melody, and by midday it strikes him that he's spent hours working on a piece without agonizing over the technical aspects of it. It's remarkable how the invisible shackles of four years of uni seem to have fallen free with a single piece. Even his violin feels lighter.

Eddy laughs to no one in particular at the realization and turns off his iPad. He memorized the sheet music hours ago.

He forces himself to break for a late, nearly-forgotten lunch in a weak attempt to fight his tendency to practice to the point of injury. He remembers to check his phone and finds several texts from his sister, one from last night and two from today. He turns his notifications back on, feeling slightly guilty at leaving her hanging.

Rough lessons are the worst. You'll be ok, just take a step back from the piece and get a good night's sleep. Things will be better in the morning

I hope you're having a better day today.

I know exactly what you're doing right now. Make sure you take breaks and eat something

He shakes his head at the screen with a chuckle. How does she do that?

I am, thx. Taking a break and eating rn actually

She responds almost immediately.

Good, pls take care of yourself. You'll be great, so try not to stress too much. How's your day?

Eddy smiles down at the screen; he's smiled a lot in the past 12 hours. He types his reply before setting his phone aside.

Looking up.

He returns to his violin. He wants this to be perfect.

When darkness comes, he plays through the piece repeatedly. He doesn't bother with his mute this time. He has an interested audience for once, and he wants to be heard.

For once Eddy isn't nervous. There's no shaky bow, no breathing exercises to keep himself calm, just… music. It's effortless.

He takes occasional breaks; his hands are tired but he doesn't want to stop for too long and miss his chance. In between the repeated performances he plays bits from other pieces that spring to mind; Schön Rosmarin and Humoresques feature heavily. He doesn't know why he chooses them, but they somehow feel right.

It's close to midnight when he finally stops. There's no knock at his door, but he puts away his violin with the bone-deep satisfaction of remembering why he loves making music in the first place. He's exhausted in the best way, and the moment his instrument is out of his hands his first instinct is to collapse into bed. But he's spent the day indulging every whim that enters his head; what's one more?

He doesn't have beautiful parchment or envelopes or wax, only a cheap notebook, but he takes a minute to fold and neatly tear off the ragged edge from where he ripped it from the spirals. His handwriting isn't much, but he takes care to write the words as neatly as possible. He keeps it simple. It's short, but it says everything he wants to convey.

Thank you. This was just what I needed.

I'm happy to take requests anytime.

He takes a cue from his admirer and doesn't sign it, folding it carefully and leaving it on his doorstep. He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He can't explain why, but when he opens his eyes to sunlight streaming through his window, he immediately knows another letter is waiting for him.

~///~

Chapter Text

Did something happen? Your playing seemed lighter. Rest assured this is not a criticism; it was lovely and lifted my spirits.

I feel as though I'm intruding on your time enough. Another specific request feels like too much.

However, if you find yourself picking up your violin tonight, play something you love. If you do, I'll be listening.

Eddy reads it over and over, his heart racing. He's not quite sure what to make of it.

There's no acknowledgment of his (admittedly muted) thank-you from the note he'd left, and he can't tell if the first sentence is a genuine question or an attempt to flirt with him. He can practically hear Jordon's voice in his head – they're sending letters out of a Victorian romance novel and asking you to play for them, Eddy. Of course they're flirting – but despite all the flowery trappings and the kindness of the message, it's so… matter-of-fact that he can't imagine the author being so cagey at the same time.

Did something happen? He shakes his head in disbelief; does this person truly not know or is Eddy just being dense? Are they both being dense?

Eddy concludes he's the one being an idiot, even if he's not exactly sure how he's overthinking this. He reminds himself again that this is probably some rich elderly eccentric who hangs around student housing at a university. What he does know is that they liked what he played, want to hear more, and will be there to listen tonight.

Play something you love. The breath flew out of him when he took in the words. No one's ever actually asked him that.

Two days until his final lesson. Four until he flies home.

He immediately knows what he wants to play.

Before picking up his violin, he goes back to his notebook. If he's being dense, he may as well get it out in the open. He goes through several drafts, despite the brevity of the message. Once he settles on the final version, he rewrites it three times until his handwriting looks somewhat acceptable.

This piece is my favorite. I hope you enjoy it.

You're not intruding at all, so request anything you like. Your letters are the best part of my day, and I'd like to thank you in person.

Can we meet?

He leaves it on his doorstep. He doubts it'll be seen until dark, but until then, Sibelius awaits.

He begins even before the sun is fully set, playing the second movement on repeat. He doesn't try to amuse himself with other pieces in between performances and he doesn't need to. He'll never get tired of playing it.

He finds something new in it every time, never more so than tonight. He breathes into the music until it consumes him, unconcerned with contact points and bow distribution and allowing the melody to move him rather than the other way around. He loses track of how many repetitions he plays, and finally stops when he realizes he's shaking a bit.

It's cathartic but emotionally exhausting, and it takes him a moment to remember he's doing this for an audience. (Is he really, though?) He sets down his instrument for a break, knowing he won't be able to continue like this into the late hours.

The tea is perhaps a bad idea. It relaxes him until his eyelids grow heavy, months of stress and poor sleep finally catching up to him. It's relatively early but he considers stopping for the night. He glances at the letters on the kitchen counter and feels a little guilty at the impulse, even though something tells him their author would understand.

The light knock at his door snaps him wide awake.

"Hello?" he calls, scrambling to the entryway and fumbling with the deadbolt. He yanks the door open to find the hallway empty as always, a familiar envelope at his feet.

No. No one can move that fast.

He snatches the letter up and barrels down the stairs, but even though he's sprinting he doesn't see a soul as he clears three floors in record time and stumbles into the front lobby. A quick look through the glass at the front desk shows the landlord sprawled in his chair, snoring loudly and undisturbed by the racket Eddy's no doubt made.

He runs out to the street, nearly slipping on the concrete steps on his way out. The streets are empty as far as he can see in either direction. He keeps looking back and forth because there's no way, no way the letter in his hands could have been dropped off without a trace. He shivers, dressed only in a t-shirt and sweatpants, the sidewalk like ice beneath his bare feet.

He retreats inside and speeds back up to the third floor. Before he can think the better of it he starts knocking on doors, one after the next down the hall, trying to find any sign of life. No one answers. Either the place truly is empty or he's living with ghosts.

He steps back into his apartment, not sure if he's shaking with adrenaline or the cold. He rips open the envelope and lets it fall to the floor as he reads.

Sibelius is truly your piece. I could hear what it means to you and I won't forget it. You were breathtaking.

I don't think it's best that we meet. I have reasons that I can't explain here, but trust me when I say they are good ones. That aside, I am probably not the person you are imagining.

If you don't want to continue with this, I understand. Thank you for your music.

The paper trembles under Eddy's hands. A rejection. The most meaningful compliment he's ever received and a rejection all at the same time, though not the type he was expecting.

I am probably not the person you are imagining. It sounds unbearably sad, and he's now more certain than ever that it's some solitary elderly patron of the arts – or someone who couldn't afford to be but loves music all the same – who feels ashamed about leading him on. His heart hurts for them, whoever it is. They figured out some way to have the letters delivered quickly and silently and he's simply not figured out how, and they're afraid of what Eddy would think if he saw them in person.

He folds the letter carefully and retrieves the envelope from the floor, considering. He may have found himself in a situation that would become the stuff of legend if he were a famous musician, but this isn't a fairy tale. These are an entirely different kind of love letter. Not romantic in the traditional sense; he has no idea who's written them and they certainly aren't declarations of love for him as an individual. They're love letters to music itself, and how even strangers can share that with a few short sentences in pen and ink.

It almost means more. He needs to meet them, to look them in the eye and thank them.

He leaves a letter of his own. He could pour his heart out and try to explain it all, but that doesn't seem to be his admirer's style, so he keeps it brief.

Please reconsider. I promise I don't care who you are. You won't disappoint me.

Tell me what music YOU love. I'm happy to play it for you.

He finds a response the next morning. He takes care to open the envelope carefully this time. It's only one word. One name, in fact.

Tchaikovsky.

~///~

Chapter Text

One day until his final lesson. Three until he flies home.

Eddy turns the letter over in his hands, Prokofiev a distant memory.

Tchaikovsky.

There are so many options and they all feel too obvious. He knows he's being silly for trying to think of the most indie Tchaik piece possible; he's gatekeeping his own love letters now. His high school self would be so disappointed. He doesn't care.

He knows the concerto and the ballets like the back of his hand and isn't interested in playing either. He knows it's blasphemy to dislike the concerto but he's always found it too long and repetitive, and his own experience performing it did nothing to change that opinion. The ballets are so familiar and rote that he can't honestly engage with them anymore as pieces of music in and of themselves.

Souvenir d'un lieu cher, though.

He knows the story of the concerto and how Tchaikovsky's love affair with Iosef Kotek inspired it, but Souvenir is more interesting to him. It was composed at the same time as the concerto but abandoned and developed into its own piece later, one Eddy always preferred to the more famous piece. The third movement, Mélodie, was always his favorite, though he hasn't given it a proper listen in years. He doesn't allow himself to overthink his choice.

Before he warms up, he writes another note and leaves it on his doorstep. He realizes he's adapting the same writing style as his fan (his fan, he still can't believe it), and the formality makes him laugh.

As you wish. I've never played this piece before, so please forgive any imperfections.

I'd still like to meet you.

His day of practice is just as satisfying as the one before, but it's invested with a new sense of urgency. His admirer sounded like they were looking for a graceful way out of their strange arrangement, not because they wanted to but felt they had to. He suspects this is his last chance to change that.

The piece almost hurts to play. Tchaik's music is romantic in every sense of the word, exemplifying an era he learned about in school but embodying a passion Eddy feels on a visceral level. The melody aches. Whether it's with unrequited or forbidden love or both doesn't matter, because either way it speaks to Eddy in a voice that understands him without words.

He's spent the last four years being stretched technically, but his sunset performances of Mélodie exhaust him emotionally. He'd forgotten what it felt like. He mentally prepares himself for a long night of more of the same, but just around 8 p.m. there's a knock at his door.

He doesn't rush this time after the fiasco the previous night, carefully wiping down his violin and unwinding his bow. He pauses before opening the door.

He opens the familiar envelope with care, sliding a sharp knife under the wax seal. The handwriting is as beautiful as ever, only three words.

Meet me outside.

Eddy barely remembers to grab his coat, throwing it on as he flies down the stairs. He stops when he reaches the entryway and forces himself to take a few steadying breaths - he'll look far too eager no matter what, but he'd like to maintain some semblance of dignity.

His heart jumps when he steps onto the sidewalk and sees the figure across the street standing next to a park bench.

It's freezing. Eddy shoves his hands in his pockets and quickly crosses to the other side. The man's back is to him, dark hair and casual posture wrapped in a black pea coat. He turns at the sound of Eddy's footsteps.

Eddy isn't sure what he's expecting. It certainly isn't this.

He looks so young.

He's Asian; another surprise. Everything else about him gives off the air of a man much older than he appears - the tailored clothes, expensive black frames on his face, the confident set of his shoulders. Eddy freezes in place for a moment, breath caught, before moving again.

"Hello," the man says. He's shorter than Eddy, his build slender, but his voice is surprisingly deep and resonant in the open air. His eyes slowly drift up and down, observing Eddy from head-to-toe and back again, making no effort to hide the fact that he's looking. It's unnerving.

He's attractive, not in an obvious movie-star way but good-looking nonetheless. At the same time he's beautiful. Absurdly, stunningly beautiful, implausibly perfect skin and a slight pink tinge to his cheeks and lips. He doesn't look real.

"Hi," Eddy says, feeling breathless and stupid. "I got your letters," he says, even more stupidly.

The man looks amused. "Good. What's your name?" His accent is soft and languid, clearly Australian but there's something else there that he can't quite place. Some vaguely-European tinge that sounds partly British. Well-traveled.

"Eddy."

"Eddy," he repeats, nodding to himself but hardly moving as he does so. Eddy likes the way he wraps his tongue around his name, placing the emphasis on the first syllable and softly dancing over the consonant.

"What's your name?"

"Brett."

Another piece in a growing puzzle that makes less and less sense as he takes in the man before him. His eyes haven't left Eddy's at all since his initial once-over, intense and curious. He's so still.

"Brett," he repeats. "Who are you - how did you - did we go to uni together?" He has so many questions. It's difficult to remember them all when he - when Brett - keeps looking at him like that. A horrible thought crosses his mind.

It makes far too much sense once he latches onto it. Everything that led him here is too perfectly-aligned, so improbable that he's suddenly embarrassed for not realizing it until now.

"Is this a joke?"

Brett tilts his head, curious.

"You sound Australian," he says. "You're Asian. You look about the same age as me. You know violin repertoire." He ticks off every point with his fingers, stomach churning as he does so. "And you just happened to hear me playing in the middle of Romania, of all places, and sent me fancy letters like a fucking secret admirer?" he asks, his voice shaking. "Honestly? Who put you up to this? Jordon? Ray?" He didn't think his friends could ever play a prank so mean, but he's barely spoken to them since he started this trip so they wouldn't even know, would have no idea how badly this would sting.

He'd think it was hilarious, too, if he didn't know. But he does, and it hurts.

Brett's hand shoots from his pocket, covering Eddy's where they're clutched in front of him, so fast he doesn't even see it happen. It's just suddenly there. His hand is cold and small, graceful fingers tipped with well-manicured nails. His grip is surprisingly strong.

"Eddy." His voice is soft; understanding. It's also an order. His eyes snap up to meet Brett's in compliance. "No, we didn't go to uni together. No one put me up to this."

Eddy sways towards the sound of his voice, feeling unsteady on his feet. Brett's gaze is so intense he can't stand to look anymore; he drops his eyes back to where their hands are joined. It's not much better and he feels dizzy with it, Brett's words ringing in his ears. They sound sincere.

"Then why?"

"I like how you play," he says simply. He removes his hand and places it back in his pocket. There's no warmth to miss but Eddy finds himself leaning forward again, an invisible tug that compels him to move closer.

Brett glances back to the apartment building. "I walk by here every night. There's always music, but I haven't heard anyone quite like you before."

"You're not a student?"

"No. I played violin a long time ago, but I never studied it formally. I've never been to uni at all." There's an ironic twist to his features then, the closest thing Eddy's seen to a smile. "I'm not as young as I look."

"Who are you?"

Brett shrugs. "Just an admirer, I suppose."

"You're serious." Even after receiving the letters - the beautiful script and thoughtful requests - it all felt like something from a storybook. Standing in front of their author in the flesh and seeing the person behind it makes it startlingly real.

"Yes. I enjoyed your Prokofiev, but Clair de Lune is what convinced me to drop off the first letter. I almost didn't go through with it, but something about that…" Brett turns his attention back to Eddy; it's thrilling and nerve-wracking all at once, the way he's being studied. "That piece means something to you." It's not a question.

"It's my favorite," he says simply.

Brett nods as though he already knew. He raises an eyebrow, almost playfully. "I thought Sibelius was your favorite?"

Eddy laughs in spite of himself. "Sibelius is my favorite violin piece. Clair de Lune is… something else for me."

"I could tell. So you're a pianist as well." Brett doesn't wait for confirmation because he obviously doesn't need it. Eddy feels even more exposed for being read so expertly.

"Not a good one," Eddy admits. He's never felt so out-of-depth in a conversation before, so completely seen by someone who gives away so very little. He wonders what else Brett sees. "I still don't understand what you hear, though. I'm all right, but from your letters you make me sound like I'm on the level of Heifetz or something."

"It's not that. So much of what I've heard from there – " he tilts his head in the direction of the students' apartments – "is young musicians trying to master what's technically difficult without an ounce of soul to what they're doing." Brett shakes his head. "I know that they're developing their skill, but none of them seem to understand what they're playing. You do. It's one thing to know Prokofiev comes from a place of pain, but it's another to play it as if you know why. You do. You know what Mélodie actually means."

He says it so easily, like it's an indisputable fact. Eddy has no words for this kind of unmitigated praise. It's a stunning validation of everything he's felt about music and how he tries to interpret it; that someone else heard him and felt that is unimaginable and everything he's ever wanted.

Brett abruptly changes subjects but nails him down on another point: "You're not a student here, are you? What brings you to Bucharest?"

"I, uh… private lessons."

"I see. If you don't mind me saying so, I wouldn't expect someone of your talent to come here for that." Eddy's cheeks burn at yet another casual compliment. "I'd guess the U.K. Or Russia, maybe."

"I've been all over Europe over the past few months, actually."

"Independent study?"

"Something like that." He shakes his head, not wanting to dwell on the past few months. "Why did you stop playing violin?" he asks suddenly.

Brett blinks at him. "What?"

"You obviously love it. Why'd you stop playing?"

His face remains impassive, but Eddy senses he's struck a nerve and wishes he could take the question back. He's read Brett just as well as Brett's done to him, it seems, a slight shift in power that unsettles them both. It hangs heavy in the air between them. Brett watches a taxi pass by, pondering.

The tail lights disappear on the horizon before he answers. "Life had other plans for me."

"I understand," Eddy says, not really understanding at all and desperately wishing to change the subject. "You're not what I expected at all," he finally offers.

"And what was that?"

"Honestly? I thought you'd be some rich, grey-haired old symphony donor. Maybe with a top hat and a pocket watch."

The corners of Brett's mouth quirk up and he laughs softly. It's a brief, bright flash of sunshine that's devastating and utterly wrong, somehow. "Does reality measure up to your expectations?" And there it is, the same is-he-flirting-with-me? tone from his letter. It's no easier to discern in person than it is in print.

Eddy pulls no punches. "It's better."

He could swear Brett's eyes flicker down to his mouth. "Good."

He shivers and tells himself it's from the weather. "It's so cold out here. Would - would you like to come in? I could make some tea."

Brett remains unnaturally still, but his eyes - they change, somehow. Their color and shape stay the same. There's no observable difference, but they are different and Eddy can't articulate why. He can't explain the physical pull, why he has to force his feet to remain in place before they try to close the distance between him and Brett, or why his spine, shot through with ice only moments before, threatens to burn him from the inside out.

He's no longer cold, not when Brett stares at him like that.

"I shouldn't," Brett finally says, dropping his gaze. The moment they break eye contact Eddy can breathe again, cold air bursting through his lungs in a light-headed rush.

"All right," he says, dazed. His gut tells him Brett is right even without a good reason why, a jumbled mix of relief and disappointment. He doesn't think he could handle another minute in Brett's presence but doesn't want to leave, either.

Brett looks at him once more, the same intensity but without the unbearable heat of a moment ago. "Good night, Eddy."

He knows immediately that Brett never intends to speak to him again, reluctant as he was to meet in the first place. He also knows that protesting would be useless. "Good night," he says, in exactly the same tone as he'd give a final goodbye.

On an impulse he reaches out to grab Brett's hand again, gripping his wrist and pulling his hand from his pocket to do so. He wanted the chance to express his gratitude and he won't miss it, no matter how badly distracted he is.

Brett doesn't resist, allowing Eddy to trace his thumb softly over the knuckles. "Thank you. For – for so much. I forgot why I loved playing. You reminded me."

Brett looks down at their hands, seemingly pleased but with a tinge of sadness on his features. "Good. Keep playing, Eddy. You have something important to say." He gives a light, almost imperceptible squeeze of his hand, drops his arm, and turns without another glance, retreating under the street lights.

Eddy remains rooted in place while he walks off. He's ten paces away when Eddy finds his voice again. "Brett?"

He pauses but doesn't turn around.

"I'm still happy to take requests."

Brett could easily be mistaken for a statue, if not for the wind ruffling his hair. "I might take you up on that." His answer is quiet, barely audible over the breeze. He doesn't look back.

Eddy watches as his figure slowly retreats, growing smaller and smaller on the sidewalk before disappearing entirely.

The next morning, Eddy cancels his final lesson and extends his stay by a week.

~///~

Chapter Text

Eddy hangs up his phone. The professor hadn't been happy at the cancellation and let him know it; Eddy apologized profusely for the "personal emergency" that left him unable to attend and escaped with a begrugding "Fine" once he assured his teacher he wouldn't be seeking a refund.

His former teacher. Fuck that guy.

He'd genuinely planned on going to the lesson and accepting the tongue-lashing in person – even considered staring at his bridge the whole time just to get the full experience – but his dreams changed his priorities. He sets his phone aside and grabs Brett's letter, the one where he'd praised his Sibelius, turning it over in his hands.

Eddy rarely dreams. When he does, he never recalls them with any detail and they dissolve from memory by the time he's tossed back the covers and put his feet to the floor.

Last night was an experience in vivid color, the sounds as rich as any he's heard in a concert hall. He stood on the same sidewalk as the evening before, the streets completely deserted save for Brett, softly lit under the streetlights with a violin in hand. He played Tchaikovsky's second movement, eyes closed and oblivious to the fact that Eddy stood right next to him. He couldn't take his eyes off Brett's hands, graceful and precise as his fingers danced across the fingerboard and made the most mournful sound he'd ever heard.

He tried to move, to speak, anything to tell Brett he was listening, but no sound left his throat and his arms wouldn't cooperate when he tried to reach out. He could only stand and watch, an arm's length away and completely invisible. It took several minutes after waking to realize he'd been dreaming.

The desperation he'd felt still claws at his chest, almost as much as when Brett walked away from him last night. He still can't articulate why meeting him face-to-face affected him so badly. He knows why the letters did so, but the gut-punch of being in Brett's presence doesn't track with any emotion he knows. He feels stupid for not understanding why.

He's not a hormonal pre-teen experiencing his first crush. It's not love – they don't even know each other, really. They've only exchanged a few sentences in letters and spoken for all of five minutes. Lust, Eddy is all too familiar with. It's definitely present, but it's not what's making him lose his damned mind. It started well before he ever knew what Brett looked like, and fuck, why does he have to look like that?

Infatuation? Eddy knows his tendency to become obsessed with composers, soloists, and certain pieces of music. Occasionally with people he knows in real life, too, but not since high school and never on this scale. Not like this.

He also knows there's no letter waiting for him, but he checks the empty doorstep anyway.

For a moment he stands in the middle of the apartment, completely at a loss. Then his brain kicks into gear as he reaches for his laptop.

He starts by scrolling through every mutual on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter with the slightest connection to music and orchestra, including acquaintances who dropped out of AYO at age 13 whom he hasn't spoken to in years. He checks each of their friends lists one by one; after over an hour of looking he's only found two Bretts and one Bret. Two are white guys and one is a biology student at UQ with a profile picture that is very obviously not the Brett he's looking for.

Brett – Bret? His instinct is to spell it with two Ts, but how can he even know? – may not have studied formally, but "informally" can mean a lot of things. All he's got to go off of is that he's an Asian-Australian violinist who can't possibly be older than 30 and didn't attend music uni. There must be some record of him somewhere.

Eddy scans through every roster of Australian youth orchestras from the last decade. Then New Zealand, just to be sure. Then every competition he can think of down to low-level Eisteddfods. Nothing.

He debates texting his uni friends but thinks the better of it. He tries searching for profiles near Bucharest and comes up empty again. It shouldn't be surprising, considering Brett's preferred form of communication is pen and ink. He doesn't seem like the type to care about social media.

He may as well be chasing a ghost.

Eddy glances at the clock on his laptop and sighs before closing it. He stares at the letters on his counter and remembers the way Brett looked at him last night. The way he tried to impose some distance between them, first via letter and then about meeting in person, but caved almost immediately each time. Eddy's certain he'll be listening tonight.

The only way he knows to reach Brett is by playing. He rips a page from his notebook and hurriedly writes another note, placing it on the doorstep before grabbing his violin.

I meant what I said.

Requests are still open.

Eddy chooses Shostakovich for his evening performance.

He's never learned the full concerto and it's less refined than any piece he's played for Brett thus far. Despite that, the first movement feels like an appropriate soundtrack for his thoughts. He finds solace in the cadenza, going so far into himself that the music feels more like screaming at the top of his lungs than notes on a page. His violin wails and sobs through repeated renditions, each more desperate than the last.

It's therapeutic. Eddy always marveled at soloists who could access and project the emotional despair of the piece. He'd always found it beyond his own capability, whether it was because of his technical shortcomings, or an inability to understand the music on the same level as the greats. Either option was always a tough pill to swallow. The prospect of the latter is the one that constantly ate at his self-esteem.

He could physically play the notes with enough practice. He could contort his face into an approximation of what he's supposed to portray. But it always felt false, like a singer who memorized lyrics in a language they don't understand. As technically difficult as Sibelius is, the emotional heft of it always came naturally to him. With Shostakovich, Eddy knows the words but not how to make them sing.

But over the course of several hours, he somehow unlocks a piece of that ability in a way that actually feels genuine. It surprises him the first time it happens. He's almost afraid to end the piece lest he lose the bit of magic he's just discovered, but he's able to explore more deeply with each subsequent run-through. Each time he finds a new turn of phrase, a new way to make his instrument speak for him, a new nuance of the emotion that completely changes his approach to the rest of the piece. He's not just hearing a personal interpretation in his head, but he's able to translate it into his playing. His instrument sings.

He knows Brett is listening. He can't explain why, but he's certain. Can Brett hear what's happening? Does he understand?

By midnight Eddy finds himself more emotionally spent than physically tired. A peek out the front door confirms his note is still there, undisturbed. He goes to bed feeling lighter for making such a breakthrough, but still unsettled.

The dreams come again, just as vivid as the night before.

Brett stands alone onstage in a grand concert hall as he plays the familiar Tchaikovsky. Eddy sits in the center of the front row, the sole member of the audience. He's so mesmerized by the performance he finds himself holding his breath for most of it. The same haunting melody echoes through the venue and wraps around him in rich tones he can almost see, rather than floating away in the open air of a cold city street. The sound is fuller and more beautiful than the first time he heard Brett play. It's also more lonely.

The piece concludes to complete silence instead of the thunderous applause it deserves. Once again Eddy is unable to move or speak, pinned into place by an invisible force as he desperately tries to stand and cheer.

Brett surveys the deserted seats with a wistful expression. Though Eddy is directly in front of him, Brett's eyes go right through him as he scans the front row, completely unseeing.

He looks around the auditorium for a painfully long time, slowly examining the empty seats and balconies one by one. He finally turns to do the same for the bare stage. Brett regards the unoccupied conductor's stand and vacant risers with a sigh. Eddy would sigh along with him if he were able to move.

Brett deserves an orchestra for this. He deserves an audience for this.

He turns back for one last look at the auditorium while Eddy watches helplessly. Brett's face, usually so stoic, is shot through with sadness.

He leaves the stage without taking a bow.

Eddy wakes with sunlight streaming through his window and the remnants of dried tears on his cheeks.

He's still a bit shaken as he washes his face with bracing-cold water and tries to orient his mind back into the real world. It's as bad of a nightmare as he's ever had. Far worse than any childhood dream where he was chased by monsters, or the rare occasions during uni when he imagined bombing a performance in embarrassing fashion while he slept.

He automatically heads for the door once he's cleaned up and dressed. He knows the routine.

In spite of everything, the first line makes him smile.

Eddy,

Brett knows how to spell his name. Not Eddie. Eddy. No one ever gets it right. Maybe he's on social media after all.

Perhaps I spoke too soon when I said Sibelius is your piece. Shostakovich suits you.

I haven't had the pleasure of listening to a musician find so many interpretations of the same piece. Yours were all different, captivating, and honest.

Brett did understand. Of course.

As haunting as it was, I can't help but worry I might have been the cause of some of the pain that came through so viscerally in your playing. If that's the case, I'm sincerely sorry. I don't want to be responsible for putting you in that type of place, no matter how spectacular your performance was.

It's also possible that I think too highly of myself.

Eddy snorts out a surprised laugh. He didn't know what to expect from the letter, but self-deprecating humor wasn't even a consideration. It makes him like Brett that much more.

Yeah, he likes Brett. Not a shock, but it feels good to voice it so clearly in his head. He lets it sit in his mind for a moment and finds himself smiling again.

He doesn't allow himself to dwell on the previous paragraph too much. Brett sees (and hears) far too much.

Your offer is kind but I'm still asking too much. You obviously don't need any direction from me. Play whatever your heart tells you to play.

Regards,

Brett

Eddy was right; it's "Brett" with two Ts. It shouldn't make him feel as good as it does to know he guessed correctly.

His response is short and to the point.

Requests are still open.

Private, in-person concerts are also available. Supply is limited, so I'd recommend reserving a spot while they're still available.

Eddy's piece of choice for the day is Ysaÿe 3.

He forces himself to set down his instrument and leave the apartment at lunchtime. He makes a quick visit to a cafe down the street; the food is good and the staff is kind, a few of them with good enough English to help him without anyone needing to fumble with a translation app. The fresh air and beautiful architecture of the city he's so steadfastly ignored invigorates him, and he returns to his violin with renewed energy. As the sun sets, the emotional freedom he found in Shostakovich carries over into his performances of Ballade.

The day of practice leaves him comfortable with the tricky intonation and he's able to let go with the piece in a way he rarely does. He so often associated it with Vengerov's masterclass and boxing analogy, but now it feels different.

It sounds like a villain origin story. Like a man struggling with his emotions after a traumatic event and wrestling with the urge to make an evil decision, eventually giving in to temptation in a triumphant, macabre flurry. It's more beautiful and terrifying than any rock concert he could imagine. Eddy leans into the idea more and more with each performance, and by the end of the night the piece is almost unrecognizable compared to the way he would have played it only six months ago.

The dreams don't stop. Neither do Brett's letters, a pristine envelope waiting for him the next morning.

Eddy,

I've heard many versions of Ysaÿe 3. You've surprised me once again with your interpretation. Most violinists these days veer towards a specific type of sound, but you found an original approach to the piece that I've been craving. It's wholly your own.

Wonderful work. Thank you.

Regards,

Brett

Two days in a row, Brett hasn't provided a request. He didn't even acknowledge the offer of a private concert. But he is listening.

Eddy traces his finger over Brett's signature, considering.

Clair de Lune is what convinced him to leave the first letter. He only agreed to meet after Eddy played Tchaikovsky. If he's going to nudge Brett out of his reluctance to interact in-person, he probably needs something sweet and personal and romantic.

The choice is obvious. Korgold.

It's an utter joy to revisit the piece; he obsessed over it in high school but hasn't properly played it since then. He doesn't listen to Perlman's recording before beginning his practice. He already knows every note and gliss and dynamic by heart, and he doesn't want to risk interfering with his newfound creative streak by copying someone else. The sweet melody comes to him naturally, and unlike the previous nights he's able to play it again and again without tiring himself. It's effortless.

It's near 11:00 p.m. when he pauses to make some tea. He hasn't even turned on the kettle when a knock at his door startles him; Brett's letter is arriving early. Eddy takes a moment to gather himself before answering, preparing for another message that treads the same exhilarating, frustratingly stagnant waters they've been dancing in for the last few days. His heart races all the same.

He opens the door with his eyes on the cheap hallway carpet. Instead of the expected envelope with a gleaming red seal, he's greeted with a pair of expensive-looking dress shoes. He yanks himself upright, caught off-guard.

Brett stands before him in a stylish black trench coat, hands in his pockets and not a hair out of place.

Chapter Text

Brett presents a startling picture; he practically glows against the backdrop of the dingy hallway and fluorescent lighting. Eddy has a brief, crystal-clear moment of self-consciousness at the rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants he's wearing, at how underdressed he is in comparison. He should probably say something, but nothing comes out as he steps into the hallway. The door quietly falls shut behind him and again Eddy feels a near-physical compulsion to close the few remaining feet between them.

"Hello," Brett says, an exact reenactment of their first meeting. The only change is his lack of glasses, his face bare this time. Eddy can't decide if it makes him look older or younger.

"Hi." He clears his throat, determined not to make any more of a fool of himself than he has already. "I, uh, I wasn't sure you were listening."

The corners of Brett's mouth quirk up. Just barely. "We both know that's not true."

The acknowledgement is validating and embarrassing at the same time, even though Brett's just as much of a participant in this whole situation as he is.

Eddy ignores it. "You're a difficult man to get ahold of."

Brett raises an eyebrow. "Really? You get a letter from me every night." He shrugs. "You won't find me on Instagram, Eddy. I respond to every performance you give – " the slight sarcastic lilt disappears from his voice and his words turn heartfelt, " – and you truly give when you play. I don't know how to properly express how grateful I am for that, and your kindness in taking my requests. But," he says, turning to a tone Eddy's starting to recognize as Lawyer Mode, "I've answered every letter you've written to me. I didn't ever intend on meeting you, but here I am."

"Why?"

"You're not here for long," Brett points out. "You live on the other side of the world and you're not a student here. You said yourself that you're doing independent study. Once the holidays are over you'll be kicked out of this place so the next crop of students can move in. And I…" he sighs.

"My life is complicated, Eddy. So much more so than I could explain and it doesn't matter, not when you're about to go back to Australia and I'll be here." Brett laughs a little, a sound that's startling and inexplicably sad. "I simply heard you play and wanted to send you my encouragement and appreciation. And, selfishly, to listen as long as you were here to play. I thought I'd be a mysterious secret admirer. I just wasn't expecting you."

"Was I what you expected?"

"Better." And there it is, another half-smile. It shouldn't look so tragic.

Fuck it. Eddy decides to be blunt. "You were listening tonight. What did you think?"

Brett's gaze quickly shoots up and down and Eddy once again feels underdressed. Brett doesn't seem to mind. "Stunning. Korngold is… very romantic. You captured it perfectly."

"Thank you," Eddy manages, breathless. He has a million questions for Brett, about Brett, but the first thing he needs to do is convince him to stay. "Do you want to come in? I could play something for you." He laughs. "You won't have to listen through walls or windows and can hear my bad intonation in all its glory." He can see Brett fighting a smile and he should probably continue joking, but his dreams are still fresh in his mind and he can't stop himself. "Or you could play my violin. If you want."

Brett's eyes change at the hasty offer, just as they did in their previous meeting. Eddy can't spot a single difference in their appearance but they change nonetheless. He couldn't ever articulate how. They remain hypnotic either way. "I haven't played in ages. It wouldn't go well."

"I don't mind." Eddy ventures a smile. "Maybe I could give you a lesson."

"I'm sure you could." Brett tilts his head, curious but deftly changing the subject. "You've been practicing a lot."

"Is it that obvious?"

Amusement flashes over Brett's features, another brief glimpse beneath the calm façade. He knowingly taps the space just underneath his jaw, then reaches out to the same spot on Eddy's neck, a whisper-light caress over the violin hickey that's grown much darker over the past week.

His fingertips are cool to the touch. Eddy erupts in goosebumps.

He says nothing because Brett looks utterly fascinated. He casually traces over the skin of Eddy's throat, examining the mark with a single-minded focus that's unnerving. He freezes in place, holding his breath on a tightrope that could unravel at any moment. He doesn't dare move because Brett might stop touching him if he does.

Brett steps closer, fully in Eddy's space now. The maddening trail of his hand continues.

"Yes." The word reverberates in Eddy's skull, like it's spoken between his ears. He'd forgotten he'd even asked a question. Brett continues with one of his own. "Why?"

Brett's eyelashes flutter over his cheeks and he is so, so close. Eddy blinks, uncomprehending.

"You said you remembered why you loved playing again," Brett explains. His finger trails over Eddy's jaw, down to his collarbone and back up again.

"Yes." Eddy barely gets the word out. He swallows and finds a few more. "You know why."

The scratch of a fingernail beneath his ear nearly buckles his knees. Brett lifts his eyes to finally look at him and Eddy can hardly breathe. The scrutiny is unbearable and though Brett's expression barely changes, he looks as though he's just come to a decision.

"Good."

That's all he says. A hand wraps around his chin, confident and persuasive. Eddy isn't sure if he's being pulled or leans in of his own free will.

Brett's lips are soft and cool, just like the rest of him. The last of Eddy's breath leaves him with the first brush of skin and he's not kissing Brett, not really. He allows the first test, a gentle press and pullback followed by another, firmer push that prompts his mouth open. There's a soft swipe of a tongue and a brief pull of teeth at his bottom lip, and when he sighs into it the fingers at his chin tighten before tilting his head just so, arranging him carefully before he's completely devoured.

It comes in waves, slow, deep strokes of Brett's tongue. Eddy's back meets the door as he clutches Brett's waist and tries to keep up. He can't, useless against the relentless weight of the sea. He holds on as best he can and tries not to drown.

He's overwhelmed by the sense that he's being tasted, positioned precisely for consumption by the hand at his jaw. Brett is deliberate and thorough, drinking his fill before breaking away suddenly and nudging his nose against Eddy's throat. He kisses the mark left by his violin, a quick, fleeting thing before pulling back and lifting his eyes.

Eddy meets his gaze, utterly flattened. Brett's lips are slightly swollen but he otherwise looks no worse for wear, unfairly composed and not even breathing hard. Eddy can barely stand. Kisses shouldn't do this. They shouldn't suffocate him and pull him up for air all at once. It's equal measures exhilarating and terrifying.

The hand on his face remains, a soft palm at his cheek and hypnotic strokes of fingertips caressing his ear and the ends of his hair. Brett doesn't speak; he only looks and touches. Eddy lets him. A thumbnail drags lightly over Eddy's lower lip, shattering what's left of him.

He wants – that's it, that's the only thing. Brett's hand is on his mouth and he wants.

He closes his lips over Brett's thumb. For the first time he sees surprise register on Brett's face, his eyes widening so minutely Eddy wouldn't have caught it if they were any farther apart. Brett's lips part slightly, audibly exhaling when Eddy sucks at the pad of his thumb.

He withdraws his hand only to bury it in Eddy's hair. The tug is subtle but the instruction is clear; Eddy follows easily and drops his head back. Brett's mouth grows soft as he lazily works his way over the path his fingers followed earlier. He's careful but explicit, barely-there brushes of his lips and breaths that tickle Eddy's skin as he moves from chin to jaw to just underneath his ear and back. He returns to the violin hickey and kisses him there, hot and wet and open-mouthed, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to make Eddy's hair stand on end. He digs his fingers into Brett's back. Every pull of his mouth drowns Eddy further, dragging him deeper and deeper into the tide.

He's never felt so intensely wanted before. He closes his eyes and lets himself be moved.

He blinks at the ceiling when Brett breaks away, bewildered and relieved and disappointed all at once. He needs more, needs it to stop, he needs. That final realization is what makes him drop his head and lean down, pulling Brett flush against him and finally kissing back.

It's delicious, the way Brett leans up to meet him with a pleased little noise pulled from the back of his throat. Eddy's hands slide under Brett's coat and tease at the small of his back, slipping beneath the hem of his soft sweater and pressing his palms flat against bare skin as he pulls him even closer. He's on fire, utterly consumed by flames and desperately trying to make them burn hotter and brighter.

Eddy's a moment away from grabbing the lapels of that ridiculous expensive coat and dragging him into his bed when Brett abruptly pulls back. He doesn't go far – they're still clutching one another and their noses are touching, lips hovering tantalizingly close – but it's a clear stop. They stay like that for a while, sharing the same air, eyes closed and breathing each other in. Eddy waits, knowing Brett will find his composure first.

He does, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh. He ghosts his lips over Eddy's, achingly sweet and somehow dangerous. "Good night," he whispers against Eddy's mouth, skin barely brushing skin as he says the words. It feels like a warning.

He steps back and before Eddy can register his words, he is gone. Just… gone, disappeared so quickly it makes no sense but he's already losing his fucking mind so what's one more thing, really? He can't hear footfalls on the stairwell but even if he did, he doesn't have enough control over his legs to follow.

Eddy slouches against the door, buzzing down to his core at the most erotic experience of his life. He reaches up to his throat with shaking fingers, brushing over the mark that Brett just worked over so thoroughly. He winces at the tenderness of his skin.

He stares down at his hand and he doesn't feel fully connected to his body, seeing fingertips painted with light pink smears and not quite registering that they belong to him. He's bleeding, just barely. Brett's lips and mouth were just a tiny bit too much pressure for his already-damaged skin. He rubs his fingers together, entranced, smearing the color further. A cold thrill shoots up his spine.

When he finally falls asleep just before the sun rises, he dreams of Brett's mouth on him and around him, everywhere it can reach. It hurts, and it bleeds. It's perfect.

~///~