(love)birds of a feather

chapter nineteen

One click on the screen opens their camera, their faces now broadcasting to the screens of their fans, with a steadily-climbing live viewer count as comments and donations flood the live chat straightaway; they're live now.

Brett's smile widens; an entire year since their Tchaikovsky 2 Mil has led up to this. "Hello, everyone!"

"Oh wow, this chat's started already," Eddy remarks, and they both watch the chat fly by in a blur of comments and donations, watch the viewer count soar upwards. "Hi, everyone! Dude, my heart rate is like—" 

Brett looks at Eddy, and beneath the semblance of his smile, he sees the whirlwind of nervousness still stirring within him; he'd kiss and reassure those worries away if not for the camera and audience watching them.

He starts taking deep breaths in and out from behind Brett, who looks to the viewer count again. "Twelve thousand—fourteen thousand!" He watches it climb, higher and higher as more people join. "Where are you guys from?"

The chat flows with several countries at once, in both lowercase and all-capitals, with words and flags—Brett's in awe of how this many people from all around the world are here to watch them play together, here to watch the result of relentless practice just for them, the audience.

"This is very exciting for us," Brett says, as Eddy abruptly steps aside, out of shot.

"Be right back, I need water."

"Alright, I'll see you later." Brett glances at him, then to the screen again. "While the soloist is getting ready backstage—"

He's interrupted by a shout of laughter from Eddy that brings forth a smile to his face. "Don't call me the soloist!"

Eddy returns, and so it follows that they watch the chat for a little while longer, talking to their fans, thanking them for everything—and then they're almost ready to begin the performance they've practiced so hard for, have been anticipating for months.

They both get their violins and begin tuning; they're almost ready to begin. Then—it's silence as they ready themselves in front of an audience of now forty-eight thousand.

Even still, Brett can see perfectly well, Eddy's still rather nervous in front of the audience, his heart most probably pounding real fast; here and now, all Brett can do is hope he'll immerse himself in the concerto soon enough, forget anything troubling on his mind.

"Ready?" Eddy asks softly, looking over at him.

Brett lifts his violin to his shoulder again, before responding, "yeah."

They stand there together for a few long moments, with not a sound nor word passing between them. Brett lets himself breathe before he's to start them off, easing his reckless nerves as adrenaline courses through him.

You can do this, Brett.

He lifts his bow to the string and begins the first few bars of his orchestral part, and suddenly, to his mind, they're not live—he's taken freely to the countless times they've practiced Sibelius together before this moment, beneath sunlight, beneath rain and clouds.

He's hearken back to the way those practice sessions all ended, with the gentlest words of comfort, of advice for eachother's ears, ended with the sweetest of kisses—only with tender gestures of love given and taken.

After a few beats, Eddy comes in with his solo, with a sweet and cold tone. It's as though the winter beyond their walls has iced its way in, with the way their music flurries out of their violins and embodies the whitest of snow, the coldest of wind.