It’s been something like three hours since his decker received the warning that he’ll die today—and yet. Eddy is, without a doubt, far too invested in this whole Last Friend thing—in him.
It’s gonna hurt when it’s all over, he knows. He’s bound to watch him die sometime later, fated to some sort of untold duty as a Last Friend—like he’d known what he’d signed up for at the very beginning.
He’s going to be okay, though.
He’d known what he signed up for since the very moment he found Brett Yang’s profile on the Last Friend app.
(He isn’t in the state of mind right now for thinking about what happened on the seventeenth day of June all those years ago—especially not when that stain in history will resurface in twenty-one hours.)
He hates it, though, putting up walls against the foreboding consuming his heart even though he knows, that there’s nothing he can do. It’ll fall apart again, out of tune and twisted rhythm and so heartbroken.
At the end of it all, he’ll have played through all the mournful violin concertos, and the remnants of a shattered, bleeding heart at his feet are all that’ll be left.
Because how could he not soften the edges of his heart to someone like him—to the way raindrops cling to his hair like little crystals, to the way his eyes soften behind his glasses when he smiles?
(He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay.)
He’ll just make sure not to fall, and he’ll be okay.
As they leave the cemetery, Brett’s talking animatedly about all the emotions in Tchaikovsky’s music—and there’s no way Eddy can’t hang on every word of his, the way there’s sweet music and sunshine in his voice even against the rain, how the sadness pooling in his eyes makes the heavens shake.
Eddy isn’t going to forget any of these things when Death-Cast’s foretelling does become reality.
No matter how painful it might be in the end.
Because more than a decade ago, a company came into being, claiming to be able to predict the day of people’s deaths—and now Death-Cast has been a sort of backbone of society ever since.
Now, after today, he’ll have lived through two of the biggest heartbreaks of his life.
“Why do they call people who are gonna die deckers?”
“I think the Death-Cast creator said something about how we’re all captains on the decks of our own ships, setting sail on our own journeys. Kinda like the saying ‘a ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.’”
“Hm. The Decker and the Last Friend. It sounds like a classical piece that history would write about us someday.”
“What’s it gonna be, discount Shostakovich?” Brett jokes, and Eddy grins as they both cross the gates out of the cemetery.
His and Brett’s hands are still intertwined—fingers locked and palms together, soft but unfaltering, swinging back and forth almost playfully. It’s a caffeine buzz, he’s almost giddy on the feeling—a warm, fuzzy feeling that shadows it all and maybe it will be painful in the end.
“D’you know where we’re headed?” Eddy asks.
“I think we would be heading to the park right now,” Brett replies while sticking his free hand out beneath the rain, “but the weather’s not…”
“Who’s to say the rain can stop you from living your End Day?” Eddy smiles softly. “I have an umbrella in my car—maybe we can go back to your house and head to the park from there?”
“Sounds good.”
• • •
“It’s raining and all, but…there’s something beautiful about everything in the rain like this, no?”
In a place like this, usually the sunlight doesn’t shy away behind the clouds, groups of people stroll along the pathways together, and vivid flowerbeds buzz with wildlife. Today, though, rainclouds smudge across the skies and the two of them are very much alone.
To Eddy, there’s something so deeply dreamlike about it all: vibrant blossoms and fresh greenery, the rainfall and mist, him and Brett alone.
It’s like something from an impressionistic piece, kind of. Eddy looks around in wonder at the greens and blossoms glistening with rain, walking side-by-side with Brett beneath their shared umbrella, shoulders brushing, hands still intertwined warmly against the cold.
Brett’s right, kind of. There’s something about flowerbeds in bold hues, even in the rain, that’s so beautiful—and yet.
The distance for the two of them is shrouded with mist, and Eddy doesn’t know if Brett will ever get to see the park and its gardens, true beneath all their sunlit glory, ever again.
“You’re not wrong,” he says softly, kneeling down and letting his fingertips brush the delicate petals of blood-red roses and pink cyclamens—together coloring a lullaby from love to yearning to heartbreak. He stands up and quickly ducks under the umbrella, slipping his hand into Brett’s again as they keep walking.
Eddy gazes at Brett as they walk together: the way his violin case bounces on his back as he walks—he’d insisted on bringing it along—the way his eyes widen infinitesimally in wonder at the flowerbeds like he’s trying to find sunshine even in the rain.
(All the while, vague flower meanings float about in his brain, and yet he can’t piece colors to meanings. An out-of-place Korngold’s violin concerto begins to yearn in his mind—and what’s this ache blossoming in his core?)
He’s been wondering, over and over again, because it's been lingering at the back of his mind ever since the graveyard: where’s that narrow edge between love and heartbreak in music?
Is there one, even?
“About the question you asked me back at the cemetery, if there’s a difference between being afraid of love and being afraid of heartbreak…” Eddy starts, but his question trails into nothing.
They're approaching the heart of the park: a wide clearing abundant with beds of forget-me-nots and lilacs and roses. A round gazebo is positioned in the center, and Brett and Eddy wordlessly walk over beneath it for shelter.
Eddy closes the umbrella and turns away from Brett, leaning against the railing and breathing in the smell of earth in the rain, watching the reflection of the sky in the puddles—Debussy’s Reflets Dans L’eau chimes softly in his brain at the sight of it all.
For just a few moments, today isn’t an End Day, there's no Last Friend commitments—there’s no mourning to be done and Eddy closes his eyes, lets himself breathe here.
For just this moment, Eddy hopes everything truly will be okay.
He hopes death truly won’t be so lonely for them both.
“My hands are pretty darn cold, but…I think this scenery calls for some violin playing,” Brett breaks the silence, the sound of a violin case being placed down on the floor and unzipped from behind Eddy.
Eddy’s heard him play thousands of times before: recital programs as kids, violin concertos, solo lines in symphonies—and yet. Maybe it’s the prelude, the promise of a sad ending, but he’s longing for life and color, for music to kiss his ears like he’s never heard him play before. He turns around.
“Go ahead,” he says, his voice suddenly soft.
Brett glances up from rosining his bow and smiles, before standing up again and quickly tuning his violin, rolling his shoulders to rule out tension. He lifts his bow to the G string, unhesitant in his movements, and begins to play.
Eddy recognizes the piece at once, from years at the conservatory and orchestra rehearsals, from the opening lower notes and the way they’re drawn: the Allegro Moderato from Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto.
After that, the rest of the world fades away.
Brett’s playing echoes beautifully against the rain, resonant sound and flowing undertones singing a duet of passion and gentleness in a way Eddy’s never heard before. It complements their surroundings, this whole End Day, really: heavy rainfall upon delicate flowers trying to find the sun.
Their eyes meet as the concerto reaches the second subject: dialogues of flowering passion, torment waiting to be released within the singing notes. Eddy shivers to his core and it’s not because of the cold—fondness blooms inside his heart, and yet mourning grips it from the outside.
(Eddy isn’t one to know, really—are fondness and mourning the same thing?)
Brett plays the violin with poise and power: the chords ring out against the rainfall and the passion makes the skies above weep. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before, the way his fingers dance over the fingerboard so elegantly, the knit of his eyebrows in concentration, the way he directs the music to his perusal.
Beyond everything, there’s something about the expressions in the concerto that are so uniquely Brett—a small streak of light against his eyes, a glimpse into his life, a dandelion waiting to be wished on, and.
God.
Eddy simply cannot look away.
He’s stood there in awe for fifteen minutes straight when the movement draws to its powerful finish, and the air’s been knocked out of his chest and there’s no words to say—no words to define the feeling sweeping over him as Brett lowers his violin from his shoulder.
“So…yeah. Tchaikovsky violin concerto, first movement,” Brett says, suddenly awkward as he kneels down to his violin case, loosening the bow hair and packing his violin away. “Hopefully I didn’t destroy your ears or anything.”
(Is this how it feels, when something is so overwhelmingly beautiful? The reverberations in the heart, shivering to the core after someone else bares their heart and soul for others to see?)
“That was—you should’ve become a soloist, I mean…that’s the most beautiful interpretation of the Tchaik I’ve ever heard.” Eddy stumbles breathlessly through his words as his cheeks grow warm. “It feels almost…sacrilegious for my heart to keep beating while you’re playing, really.”
(Brett Yang is going to be the death of him.)
“Wow.” Brett blinks, looking up at him while slinging his violin case over his shoulder. “Thanks, Eddy, that—that means a lot.” He motions to the path up ahead. “Let’s keep walking?”
Eddy nods and Brett joins him beneath the umbrella again, and they continue walking along the path between vivid hedges of flowers. A rapid blooming of petals still closes up Eddy’s throat, and the sweet notes of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto still resound in his brain, over and over again.
(There’s an ache flowering within the confines of his ribcage, and for the love of god, he can’t figure out why.)