Which composer likes tea the most? Chai-kovsky.

3. a rondo is a type of dance

"There is music in the air, music all around us; the world is full of it, and you simply take as much as you require." 

– Edward Elgar

That day in the coffee shop established a new normal, and from then on, Brett and Eddy's daily interactions became each other's only respite from their otherwise oppressive routines. Eddy learned to avoid the shop's morning rush, and would linger a bit each day, sipping his drink and trying to chat with Brett. They could speak so easily with each other, it was almost as if they'd known each other for a lifetime.

In short, their days went like this:

Brett would wake up. Hit snooze. Wake up. Practice – left hand, right hand basics. Go to work, hoping to see Eddy. Morning rush, looking for Eddy. Eat. Listen to recordings. Go to rehearsal. Eat dinner. Nighttime practice – concertos and concert pieces. Shower. Videogames. Sleep.

Similarly, Eddy would wake up. Go for a run. Shower. Listen to recordings on the way to Rimsky-Korsakoffee, hoping to see Brett. Go to rehearsals. Eat. Practice – left hand, right hand basics. Snack. Practice – concertos and concert pieces. Eat dinner. Videogames. Sleep.

Every day, Eddy would order a new drink so he could watch Brett navigate behind the counter.

"What'll it be?"

"Latte"

"What'll it be?"

"Cappucino". Then macchiato. Americano. Espresso. Doppio. Ristretto.

Brett appreciated the variety, and the challenge the Eddy created with his random ordering style. He had to look at the cheat sheet behind the counter more than once for this customer. Although, he preferred the less challenging drinks - only so he could have more time to talk to Eddy. Or, at the very least, watch him sip at his coffee before heading off to rehearsal. Eddy always drank like a bird - Brett hadn't once seen him finish a drink. And that was because Eddy didn't like most of them. Honestly, the flat white Brett had made him that first day was by far the best. But that didn't matter. Eddy didn't rearrange his schedule for the coffee. 

There wasn't much variation on that theme. Except for a few notable things.

Brett learned on the second or third day, he couldn't remember which, that Eddy liked puns. Game on. He took his chance as he handed Eddy his... caramel macchiato? Eddy kept changing his order.

"Hey Eddy"

"What," Eddy's curious eyes looked at him over his cup as he took a sip

"What to hear a joke about a staccato? Never mind, it's too short"

Brett spent the next thirty minutes cleaning up the sticky mess that had shot out of Eddy's nose. Worth it. From then on, Eddy would never drink when Brett was talking, and he came prepared with jokes of his own.

"Hey Brett"

"What"

"Don't let your kids watch symphonies on TV. There's too much sax and violins."

Brett learned that day that Eddy laughs at his own jokes. A lot. And Eddy learned how to tell when there was a sly bit of amusement under Brett's usual deadpan.

Of course they talked about music most of the time. They talked shop – practice patterns, orchestral excerpts, tricks for mastering that spicatto. They also talked trash -- industry rumors, has-been soloists, stolen instruments.

Better than those times, Eddy thought, were the times that he would learn things about his barista. Like his name. He remembered that moment vividly, because that day, his barista was wearing a black scarf around his neck, and had his button-down shirt rolled up above his elbows. Eddy's heart skipped a beat.

"What's your name again, bro?" he asked, his heart still beating wildly as he took his Cortado. What's wrong with you? Pull it together!

"Brett," the barista answered, glancing back over his shoulder at Eddy, "Brett Yang." Brett Yang then reached up to the shelf to grab a mug, and Eddy nearly dropped his drink.

Eddy was not usually immediately physically attracted to people, least of all men. He'd known he was bisexual since he was young, he'd always have to know someone very well in order to fall for them. A function of his social anxiety, he supposed. The fact was that he was usually drawn to personality and intellect, more so than looks. But Brett Yang seemed to be an exception.

Brett liked watching the way Eddy talked with his hands, like a dancer. He had very expressive hands, and when he was really passionate about something, his hair would flip around his face, and his eyes would light up.  He would draw his chest up and bent back slightly, throwing his hands open, or steeple them together and press them to his lips. Brett would hold his breath in these moments, savoring the ball of lightness and warmth bubbling up in his chest. He had had a boyfriend for most of his time in conservatory, but that was a long time ago, and he hadn't felt much interest towards anyone since. Not until this man showed up – tall, smart, goofy, watchful. His hands shook whenever he handed him his drink, but he loved the thrill he felt when their fingers nearly brushing. Yet their fingers never did. It was as if boundary had been drawn, an invisible line that neither was willing to cross just yet.