Tales as old as Time- Breddy Oneshots

ENCORE

Encore [An indulgent fluffy fic, inspired by 3Mil livestream]

A/N: I'm probably going to cringe at this later, but I might as well. And I got the picture from Twitter, forgot who tweeted it, if you know, do tell me!

By the time they're done, bumbling semi-awkwardly through the Thank yous and merch plug-ins, Brett feels the neck of his new hoodie dampen with sweat. Eddy doesn't seem much better, pulse throbbing at his throat, a sheen of sweat at his temples, flushed down to the collar of his shirt.

"Well?" Eddy asks him, mildly breathless, despite having finished the concerto several minutes ago and having had better control of his anxiety than Brett had managed at his solo last time.
"I meant it," Brett repeats, rolling his eyes. "You were great."
A small smile tugs at the taller man's lips. Brett can't help the familiar curl in his stomach- no matter how many times he sees that smile, his instinctual response is to grin back.
He spares a cursory glance to make doubly sure the camera is done recording- you can never be too sure- then reaches for Eddy.

A soft kiss. Then another, and another, and another, slow and raw. He's still warm- even warmer against Brett's somewhat cold, sweaty palms as he slides them down Eddy's neck, sighing into the other's mouth.

Perhaps it was the context, or the euphoria of the concert- the high of performing never fades, either, much like the high of being with Eddy- or the expressiveness in Eddy's playing, but the intensity he usually felt in the Sibelius had grown painfully acute, almost tinged with a yearning, something that squeezed the air out of his lungs. Brett had almost forgotten to focus on his own part, lost in Eddy's phrasing.
He'd heard him play the piece multiple times- passages replayed and practiced over and over again, especially over the past few months as he rehearsed thoroughly for their 3mil Livestream. Experimenting with the colours, the tone, the fingerings... he'd listened in an almost absently lazy way, watching from the doorway of their practice room, or more attentively, from right beside Eddy, helping. 

Even so, Brett couldn't help but be taken aback by today's performance. Sincerity was important in music, that much everyone knew. But Eddy's playing today... something in his ribcage squeezed again, and he lightly bit Eddy's bottom lip, breathing hard.
"Hey," Eddy whispers against him, breath fluttering over his skin in a way that made him dizzy. "You did great too."
"I messed up-" the other shakes his head, grinning "- no, I did, in the second movement-"
"Shut up." he smacks a noisy kiss to Brett's lips, and Brett remembers why he had played out of time, then. New violin or not, one thing that has always managed to distract him is Eddy's playing. He scowls.

"It's all your fault." The perpetrator laughs, eyes dancing with an amusement reminiscent of his childhood, when two pre-pubescent dorks would trade lame jokes in an orchestra filled with people thrice their age, stifling their snorting with their knuckles.

But there's no stifling of anything necessary now.
So Brett just shakes his head and kisses him again.

**

When he watches the Livestream- just to make sure of the quality and re-read the live chats, he assures himself- he's once again caught in the mania that is Eddy Chen. Eddy's hair flops around- a visible representation of their collective anxiety- and his brows furrow, mouth open. He keens to the sides, in time with their playing, swaying and lost in their music.

Heat flares against Brett's skin- and he definitely doesn't replay those parts, no sir, nope.

He's seen these expressions on Eddy before.
Although, it's generally as a character, acting out overly exaggerated scenes- or in much more intimate settings, at times when Brett isn't very coherent either- and that's enough of that.

"You're watching the Livestream?" Eddy asks, brows raised, as he peeks over Brett's shoulder. Brett tries to maintain nonchalance.
"Mmhmm," he replies. "These chats are, uh, interesting. You know our fans really wanted to hear Navarra as an Encore?"
Eddy snorts. "Maybe next time, hey."
"That's what we said last time," Brett gripes affectionately. "Excuses, excuses, Chen."
"I don't see you advocating for more than a concerto either!"

"I was sick, so ha!" Eddy's expression immediately softens, as expected- and honestly, Brett is equal parts exasperated and touched by his best friend's concern. It happened, it's over, he might as well joke about it, and he doesn't get why Eddy is so concerned ever so often- but then again, he isn't above playing the sickness card when he can take advantage of it, hey.
"How are you feeling now?"
Brett rolls his eyes, sighing. "I'm fine, you know that."
Eddy's hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, dark eyes searching his face for any sign of discomfort. For a moment, it's just them, the silence comfortable and charged. Eddy leans forward, pressing their foreheads together.

"Did you want an encore?" he asks softly.
"Hmm?" Brett opens his eyes to pick up on the cheeky lift of Eddy's brow.
"I have something in mind I'd like to play." Eddy says. And this time Brett is fully aware of what that means, red flushing through his cheeks, warming his ears, his hands, everywhere. 

**

Brett remembers then, that as sincere Eddy is in creating music, in creating art- it isn't limited to just his violin.