Broken String

CLXXVI

The quietude seems to vibrate around him. Dust motes hang in the air, over by the window, where sunlight moves slowly, ever so slowly over the floor. There were so many people there, just last night, but it's empty now, except for him, the silence, and the case.

The case.

It's been weird, picking it up, carrying it here. Not in the bedroom, no, not in that place where so many memories are still hanging like the dust motes in the sun. It had to be here, where he sat, where he stared.
It will heal it.
He takes a deep breath and looks around at the empty room. There's no trace left of the party, courtesy of Todd's Deep Cleaning Plan they all took part in. Even Eddy himself did. It makes him smile to think of how he ran cloths over surfaces, walked up and down to the sink to rinse.
It's the everyday things, you know, that you take for granted until you can't.

The case seems to look at him and he moves to where it sits on the edge of the couch. He's opened it here plenty of times, when he's happened to be home alone. Never like this, though.
The clasp is loud in the silence. Isn't it weird how you can not have done something for ages and yet when you do it your body knows exactly how to? He opens the lid, takes out the shoulder rest and puts it on the violin with practised moves. He blinks once, twice, then sits back.
"Whoa." he whispers. His fingers run over the smooth wood. The chin rest, higher than most but can he help his long neck? The fine tuners, really one too many still but he can't ever be fucked to start peg tuning his A. It's all still there, in exactly the state he left it in.
Like it's been waiting for him.

He stands up again, picks the violin up and halts. What should he play first? Why does this choice feel so monumental? He takes a deep breath and brings the violin to his chin.
Don't overthink this. Overthinking is part of what got him into this mess in the first place. He is smiling and tearing up at the same time as he puts bow to violin.
Bach, of course. G minor adagio. His fingers find the chords like they just did this yesterday. A faint sting, a faint murmur of tingles in his fingers and down his arm but nothing more. Oh, he takes his time with it, more than is maybe stylistically accurate but who cares right now? The lines soar, the double stops even halfway in tune.
Has it ever meant more?
Everything stops but him and his music. Bach, writing this, so conflicted about where he wanted to go, 300 years ago. It's like it's transported through him, someone else who has struggled.
Someone else who has found his way back.

The last chord takes him by surprise. He holds the G for ages, his bow slowing more and more until it runs out at the tip in a hoarse, breathy, ethereal sound. Then he lets go and stands there for forever. Tears are flowing because oh, has it ever been better? More meaningful?
Now he understands.
He puts the violin down and swipes at the tears, sits down on the couch to wait and see if his arm is done, or whether it will take the fugue as well.

The footsteps up the stairs are soft but he knows who it is. He turns his teary face, just as the door opens and his love walks in.
"Hey."
"Hey. I played."
Brett smiles and steps forward. He wraps his arms around him.
"That's awesome, Eddy. I'm so happy for you. Can I hear some?"
Eddy checks quickly. There's no pain.
"Sure. Bach Fugue?"