breddy nocturnes

i think i'm in love (i've always been)

"I guess we just-act like we're in love, hey?" Brett had told him backstage many minutes before. "It'll be easy from there."

Brett's here lifting his bow to the string, and the next moment, the pure song of his violin is the only thing worth Eddy's hearing. Brett's here standing onstage, playing like he belongs beneath the light, and how can Eddy not feel his heart expanding for him?

All three times, across all three shows, Eddy's supposed to look at his best friend with awe of his violin playing, with hearts in his eyes-it comes easy. Even he himself can't deny it-he's done it a million times before.

And so it follows that he gazes at Brett with pure adoration that doesn't need acting; he knows it's plausibly undisguised in his eyes. He lets the notes from the piece Brett's playing, Tchaikovsky's Melodie, melt into his emotions and eclipse his expression.

In the moment as he is, he can't do anything about the smile he breaks into as Brett plays a particular phrase effortlessly, his tone and everything about his playing, about him, so incredibly beautiful.

He watches with sheer awe and love, swaying along to the music, captivated by him-scripted, he reminds himself-as Brett plays on. He doesn't need to act it out, doesn't need to fake the wonder in his eyes; why should he, when he's looked at him with the same awe for years now?

I think I'm in love-the first time he says it, it's after a small cough, ever so slightly embarrassed to deliver the line. But he tells himself in that moment-this time you're acting, just pure acting.

I think I'm in love-the second time he says it, it's soft, and he's tripping over his words ever so slightly at the beginning of the phrase; he really is in awe. Don't let your real self melt into this, Eddy. The declaration, this time, is more sincere, gentle-as if it's genuine.

I think I'm in love-the third time he says it, it's brimmed with acceptance; it's burned into the very core of his memory now. I think I'm in love-he's losing himself in the phrase, little by little, every time the words roll off his tongue.

Then, three times, across three performances, comes Brett's scripted reply of "what?" and the pink lights illuminating them, there to represent love, flicker off, and they're back in reality, on stage-he's not Eddy Chen in love, he's Tchaikovsky in love.

He plays Brett's favorite piece with him, two on one violin like they used to do, with Brett doing the fingering and Eddy on the bow. Together, they play Tchaikovsky's violin concerto, the one piece that's so visible in the sunlight of Brett's smile, the night sky in his eyes, the soft wisps of his hair.

Eddy's closeness to Brett sends his senses aflutter, truth be told. Focus on the piece, Eddy, get a grip.

Brett's hand rests on his shoulder as Eddy's finds Brett's waist, their other hands intertwining; and so, he slowly waltzes across the green-screen setup with his best friend. You've done this before.

All the same, he looks anywhere but directly into the night sky of Brett's eyes. If he does, he might just find himself trying to connect the stars in them to form constellations. If he does, he might just fall in love.

"Well, you see, Tchaikovsky," Brett says to him, "from where I'm from, we believe everyone deserves an equal opportunity at love."

Who is he kidding? He's madly in love.

Act like we're in love, hey? He's truly been doing exactly that for a long time now. I think I'm in love-the millionth time his mind underlines it, he's not acting. It's true-by the time it's all over, Eddy Chen is hopelessly and irrevocably in love.