(love)birds of a feather

chapter seventeen

After an eternity of longing and loving in silence, from a distance, at long last, here he is. Here they are.

It's been confirmed, engraved in firm stone and encased in tough diamond; Brett Yang is in love with him, Eddy Chen—a requited love, unbelievable as it is.

And here he is, even now—however many times Brett kisses him, however many times he says "I love you," Eddy still can't wrap his head around the once-impossible, the now-unbelivable.

Yes, friendship is beautiful, he knows—it only takes one person to bring rays of sun to bleak rain, bring love and magic to mundane.

But what would the further-beyond bring? What would love, pure, honest-to-goodness love bring, if not even greater, if not cozy warmth to a snowfall, if not a home in this vast, vast world?

And—hell, he still can't believe it.

Now, all those beautiful things that were once within his reveries of the impossible are given voice, carried into action, with sweet words and gentle kisses and a softened heart now free on his sleeve.

And their love for eachother laces the pure song of their violins, as the clear notes meld together beneath warm sun rays, as the music they make decorates the silence of their own little world.

And somewhere in the distance, rows among rows of roses are blossoming, splaying out silky red petals beneath the sunlight. Somewhere in the distance, birds meet and fly two by two in the skies above, of one feather.

Oh, yes—something has definitely changed.

And here and now, two lovers like sun to moon—this, this is what Eddy's always wanted.

Thoughts along these lines build vast cities in his mind as Brett leans down and kisses him, slow, sweet, soft, as they hold eachother close, vowing to never let go. As they look into eachother's eyes, as tender endearments are finally given voice.

And it leaves him in awe every time, the way Brett now looks at him so fondly, with a fondness Eddy never thought he'd ever see in those gorgeous eyes, all for him and him only, no less.

As the days pass, all so beautiful, so loving and soft and meaningful, it's as though Eddy almost loses his footing beneath the weight of it all, beneath the weight of this thing that is love, love that raises pristine stars high into their night sky.

This, this is what Eddy's always wanted.

When he tells Brett so, he's returned a small shake of Brett's head as he says in an undertone, "freaking sap," but the hint of a smile quirking up on the corners of his mouth all the same says more than enough. In plain language, it's all Eddy needs.

They get to work on running through and practicing for Sibelius 3 Mil, together this time, at long last, side by side. Thus, after a few tweaks in eachother's phrasing and the like, they both have an idea of how to get their parts to not only connect together, but also to blend together flawlessly, Brett's orchestra accompaniment and Eddy's solo in perfect harmony. Just like the two themselves.

Predictably enough, Sibelius third movement plainly isn't painless child's play—Eddy's eyebrows fly up merely by looking at the clusters of notes knotted and scattered along the staves alone. He attempts again and again, struggling to perfect the chords and articulate the fast runs that send his left hand flying up and down the fingerboard. It's incredibly difficult to keep the notes consistent and smooth, difficult for his right hand to keep up with the left.

The official livestream is in a mere few weeks—would he even be ready by then?

"You expect too much of yourself," Brett remarks, disquiet flickering in his eyes at the sight of Eddy struggling. In his concentrated state, Eddy only vaguely has a sensation of Brett's warm hand gently placed on his right arm as he crunches a chord, face contorted in frustration. "Take it easy and just keep going. You're already talented as you are—I'm sure you'll do incredible on live."