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“I don’t know how I got conned into this,” Brett says, despairingly, and Eddy grins, laughs, shoves him gently and then gets to explaining the whole concept: Brett, blindfolded. Ten random violinists, playing for him. A blind date, truly.
“In the first round,” Eddy says, grinning perhaps a little too widely, “absolutely no talking from your blind dates. Music only. Then you have to eliminate four people. In the second round, you have to talk, but they can only use the violin to answer. Then you eliminate three people. In the third round - you can both talk.”
“Can’t wait,” Brett says, and doesn’t slide off his chair, even though he really, really, really wants to. He can deal with the mortification, he knows. It’s just -
There’s not much point in blind dates. Not really. Not for him.
Eddy beams, and gestures for the camera to cut. “One take,” he says. “We’re so good at this.”
“It’s our job,” Brett says, and then sighs. “I’m gonna make you do this too, you know. Or something worse. Eddy Chen vs ten bass guitar players as blind dates.”
“You wouldn’t,” Eddy says.
Brett just glares at him. He had agreed to this, but - “Fair’s fair.”
Behind the scenes, this is how it goes:
Eddy walks into the green room. Nine violinists look up at him, in various states of preparation.
“Did someone fail to show?” Ray Chen asks, eyebrows rising. “There’s only nine of us here.”
“Nah,” Eddy says, and grins, slipping his own violin case off his shoulder. One of the other violinists, a student at the Singapore conservatory, lets out a gasp.
“Shh!” Eddy says, playfully angry. “Brett doesn’t know.”
Ray tips his head back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
“It’s a prank,” Eddy insists.
“Nah,” Ray tells him. “Me being here - that’s a prank. You? That’s just funny.”
“Remember,” Eddy says, addressing the whole room but looking at Ray, “no talking.”
This is how it goes in the video: a white room. Brett, blindfold and disgruntled. Eddy, grinning, holding his violin. Ray Chen and eight other violinists holding their own violins, standing behind him. “Here are Brett's ten blind dates.”
They all wave.
“And let's begin!”
The first violinist, a young woman almost finished with her Masters degree, plays well. A bit of Brahms, light but fancy. Brett nods along, just a little.
“He liked that,” Eddy tells a shaky handheld camera in the green room. “So far so good!”
The second, third, and fourth violinists are much the same.
“Brett liked them all, but he didn't love any of those performances,” Eddy says, tapping a pen against his forehead.
“Are you taking notes?” Ray asks, disbelieving.
“Duh,” Eddy replies, and turns the camera off. “No offence,” he says to the other violinists.
That gets him scattered laughter and some cheery grins.
Eddy sends Ray in as number 5. Brett's face shifts. “Why do I know that playing,” he says, just loud enough for his mic to pick up. Ray's playing Mendelssohn - “he's listened to Ray's recordings a hundred times,” Eddy explains. “Prank successful! He hasn't guessed yet.”
Ray finishes, does a little bow to the scattered applause of the crew members.
“Where did Eddy find you?” Brett asks.
“No questions yet!” their studio camera operator yells, because Eddy isn't there to do it.
“Wait,” Brett says. “Soloist-level player that Eddy could convince to do this?”
A pause. Brett puts together the dots, and groans, his hands over his face. “Eddy! What the fuck!”
That does it - Ray bursts out laughing.
“You too, Ray,” Brett says, darkly. “I'm gonna eliminate you immediately.”
But he hasn't gotten up from the chair, and he's grinning. He's pleased to have worked it out, and Eddy, still hiding in the green room, tells his camera that.
“How does it feel to be eliminated in the very first round, Ray?” Eddy asks, when Ray walks back in, pointing the camera at him.
“I don't know,” Ray says, arching an eyebrow. “He hasn't actually eliminated me yet. And I think I'm pretty charming.”
Eddy turns the camera around just so he can roll his eyes at it.
The rest of the violinists go. Brett particularly likes number eight, with her dazzling Fauré.
Eddy goes last. He walks on grinning, lifts his violin to his chin, and launches into Salut d'amour.
Brett's expression had frozen as soon as Eddy walked onto the set, and it doesn't change. He claps politely when Eddy's finished, and then listens as Eddy's footsteps fade. Then he covers his lapel mic and says “we've got a few seconds until he gets back to the green room and he can see and hear me again, right?”
The camera operator starts laughing.
“Cut his feed,” Brett says. There's a slow smile growing on his face. “Now.”
“Cut!” calls a member of the production crew.
Brett leans forward. “Eddy doesn't know what's about to hit him. He's fucked with me - I'm gonna fuck with him too.”
Brett pauses, then smiles. “Can you bring Ray back, quickly?”
Back in the green room, Eddy is distraught. “He noticed Ray Chen but not me? How could he not have realised it was me? It's not like I was hiding it.”
“Fuck,” Eddy says, finally, and stops the video.
In the studio space, Ray walks on again.
“Is that Ray?” Brett asks.
“Here,” Ray says. “Um-”
Even through the blindfold, it's clear Brett's rolling his eyes. “Eddy's a fucking idiot and I knew it was him by the way he walked in. If that hadn't sunk in, I'd have worked it out by the breath he took before he started. If I’d somehow missed that - I know his playing. Did he buy it, though?”
Ray shakes his head, understanding. “You're fucking with him.”
“Good to have you on board,” Brett says. “Just play along.”
Ray turns to look directly at the camera. “This,” he announces, “is going to be a disaster.”
“You can give Eddy back his live feed,” Brett tells the crew. “He won't have noticed.”
“He's having a breakdown,” Ray says.
Brett is torn for a moment. Then he smiles. “Good.”
“Alright, Brett,” Eddy says, clapping his hands and putting on a good pretence at cheerfulness. “Elimination time!”
Brett talks through each player. He finishes with “and - number ten. Not hugely impressive, and there was a bit of shaky bow, but I know nerves really get to some people. Keep trying, I'm sure you'll get there.”
Ray turns a laugh into a cough. Eddy barely restrains an outraged noise. This is the first time Brett's actually criticised one of the players, and it's Eddy. Shaky bow? Confidence issues?? Confidence issues???
“So who are you actually eliminating?” He asks, voice surprisingly steady. This is all going wrong, but he can recover.
“Hmm,” Brett says. “Numbers 2, 3, 6, and 9. You all played well, and I can tell you're all talented, but there just wasn't- a spark, I guess.”
Eddy's mouth drops open. The four eliminated players wave at the camera and cheerfully walk off, clapping Eddy on the back in commiseration as they do.
“I thought you were gonna eliminate Ray,” Eddy says.
Brett tilts his head, and smiles. “I changed my mind,” he says. “I want to hear him play more - he's so good, I know you agree - and, you know. Who'd actually turn down a blind date with Ray Chen ?”
Eddy wants to scream. Behind him, Ray has covered his face with his hands.
“We all thought you hated number ten,” calls a member of the crew. Eddy glares at them.
Brett shrugs. “I want to give them room to show improvement,” he says. “And. Well.”
“Spit it out,” Ray says, wearily. He thinks he knows what's coming. He desperately, desperately hopes he doesn't know what's coming.
“It was a beautiful piece,” Brett says. “And the way they played it was - well, it had the potential to be romantic. Hot, if not for the shaky bow. I wanna hear them again.”
Eddy makes a choked noise. Brett smiles serenely at the camera. Ray, once again, hides his face in his hands.
“Hot?” says the camera operator. She's grinning. Eddy glares at her.
“Violin can be sexy,” Brett says. “Come on Eddy, you agree, yeah?”
“Sure,” Eddy manages. “Yeah.”
“Round two?” Brett asks, and so they all go trooping back to the green room before sending the first player back.
“Hi,” Brett says to her. “It's nice to meet you. Can you play me something that reminds you of home?”
She does. Brett's not really paying attention, and it's obvious.
“Thanks,” he says, belatedly. “Wow - I'm sorry. That was rude of me.”
The player laughs. Brett grins. “I'm glad you don't seem to mind.”
She lifts her instrument again, and plays one very long, very shaky bow.
Brett laughs so hard his shoulders shake. “You know what's up,” he says. “Thanks for playing.”
Cut to the green room: a handful of violinists, sitting around, chatting. Eddy, lying on the floor.
“He said I had shaky bow,” he says.
“Yup,” Ray replies, scrolling on his phone.
“I didn't!” Eddy says.
“Uhuh,” Ray says.
“And he called it hot,” Eddy says, quieter. “Almost.”
“Sure did,” Ray says. “Hey, are you reacting to the second round? Because they've just finished with violinist number one.”
“Shit!”
Eddy does react to number four. “That went well,” he comments, approvingly. “He's smiling - ah. Shit. If that's your favourite composer then yeah, that's never going to work out.”
Ray walks out after.
“Hi Ray,” Brett says. “I know you're currently touring. Can you play the coolest section of what you've been playing on stage?”
Ray raises an eyebrow, but he launches into something dizzily complicated, soaring and beautiful and layered.
When he finishes, Brett is smiling. “Thanks,” he says. “That was amazing.”
Eddy's reaction is to bury his face in his hands. “How is anyone meant to compete with that?” he asks, miserably.
Violinist number seven scowls at him. “I'm the one who had to directly follow,” he says. “But - it was good to hear. Brett is right. Ray Chen is a very good violinist.”
He leaves as Ray walks in, rolling his shoulders. “Brett's really making me work,” he says, and grins at Eddy. “You doing okay?”
Eddy pulls his hoodie up over his face. Ray laughs at him.
Brett listens to and asks questions of violinist seven and eight, politely. He says thank you when they each finish. It's obvious that his heart isn't in it, though.
Eddy has almost noticed, but he keeps stopping his analysis to say things like “he can hear that, but not hear that it's me?”
Ray wishes he had been eliminated, actually. But he's involved, now. Invested, even, in whatever disaster this is.
Then it's Eddy's turn. When he walks out, he realises that his bow hand is actually shaking.
“Hey,” Brett says, and smiles, not the type of smile he usually gives on camera. It's a little wicked, a little burning.
Eddy swallows. He doesn't know it's you, and he thinks it could have been hot, he thinks.
“Play me something…” Brett's hands clench around his knees. “Impressive,” he says, finally, like it hadn't been his plan the whole time. He's got good dramatic timing. He just wishes he could see Eddy's face - it must be priceless. Ah, well. That's what the cameras are there for.
Eddy turns wide eyes to the camera. After RAY CHEN? he's clearly thinking.
Nonetheless, he squares his shoulders and lifts his instrument and takes a deep breath.
Here's the thing: Brett isn't always around when Eddy practices. Here's another thing: filming that video with Hilary, Eddy had watched Brett attempt the sul ponticello section of Prokofiev's 1st violin concerto, and had a thought: I want to try that too. And he'd gone home and printed out the music, and approached it with the same intent focus as he had learning upbow staccato. He's been waiting to show Brett, just like he had with the upbow staccato. He'd been thinking of doing it, in a few weeks, when he'd finished polishing it. Now, though-
He launches into the second movement, hands flying, pizz and arco, runs with bowings that he'd had to carefully, slowly learn, and the sul ponticello part, that sticky pull, the hours and hours he'd poured into it, the quiet texts he'd sent Hilary, asking for tips.
Eddy's no Hilary Hahn. But he is good, and he'd worked hard on this piece. There are some near-mistakes, some parts he knows he could play better if he had more time to practise, but it's good, and he knows it.
In the green room, every jaw is on the floor. “I didn't know he knew that,” Ray says.
“I don't think Brett did either,” violinist number eight remarks. Ray looks at the small screen showing the live feed. Brett looks stunned. He's attempted this, under different circumstances. He knows how hard it is to play. He can hear the time and effort Eddy's put into it, most certainly, and it has impressed him.
“Hmm,” Ray says, and then he laughs.
On set, there's a moment of shocked silence as Eddy finishes the movement.
“Holy shit,” Brett says, eventually. He can hear Eddy's breathing, not quite panting but not far from it. “Holy shit.”
Eddy leaves the stage.
Ray gives him a hug as soon as he's back, brief and supportive. “That was-”
“It needs more work,” Eddy tells him.
Ray nods. “Yeah, it does. But-”
“He still liked it,” Eddy says. “Looks like you've got some competition.”
Ray stares at him, suddenly realising exactly what's going on. Eddy's trying to fuck with Brett by being in the ‘blind date’ pool. Brett's trying to fuck with Eddy by pretending he can't recognise him, and by pitting him against Ray, and now Eddy is insanely, bizarrely jealous, over absolutely nothing at all.
“Yeah,” Ray says. “Looks that way,” even though it doesn't look that way, not at all. Brett's changed the entire game, at this point, making it all about Eddy. This is no longer blind dating. This is the two of them in some new fucked-up challenge. Ray doesn't know what to think about that, other than that Brett has most certainly already chosen Eddy, as the centre of his focus here, if not as some sham blind date.
Round 2's eliminations are not a surprise. Brett eliminates everyone except Ray and Eddy, sending them off with kind words and suggestions. He calls Ray's performance “a masterclass in technique” and then says “number ten, I was right.”
Ray resists the urge to cover his face again. This is ridiculous. This is stupid.
“Right about what?” a crew member prompts.
Brett just smiles. Eddy's flushing beneath the stage makeup, and Ray's the only one close enough to see it.
Ray groans, and gives in to the urge to put his head in his hands. “Brett's saying it was hot,” he says, and refuses to look at whatever Eddy's face is doing, because at this point they're both just torturing him by continuing this. “Round 3?” he continues, desperately.
“Sure,” Brett says.
Ray's turn is first, because today is all about suffering. “Hey,” he says, and sighs.
Brett laughs. “He won't be listening, he'll be panicking. Thanks for playing along.”
“Anytime,” Ray says, and then pauses. “Wait, how much are you fucking with him?”
Brett frowns. "What d'you mean?”
“Like…”
“I'm fucking with him by pretending not to recognise him and making him feel like he has to compete with you,” Brett says, seeming to catch on.
“Not by calling him hot?” Ray checks. He - okay, he's friends with both of them. He doesn't want to see them hurting each other just because they can. He's - a little protective, maybe. Sue him.
Brett's cheeks go a little pink. He wants to hide. “Dude. Normally these videos are with like. Strangers who are a fair bit younger than me, to give them some visibility. I'd never call them hot; it'd be rude.”
Ray thinks the second-hand embarrassment is going to kill him. “So Eddy's the only violinist you'd call hot.”
“Duh,” Brett says. “Because he is.”
“I hate you both,” Ray says. “I'm going to play you Pachelbel's canon and then I'm leaving and you're talking to him, for fuck's sake.”
Brett laughs, like Ray's joking, and then he has to sit there while Ray does play Pachelbel's canon, in the most boring manner he can possibly muster. Zero flourishes. Zero joy. Take that .
“Bye,” he says, when he's finished, and leaves the set.
“Your turn,” he says to Eddy, who's sitting cross-legged on the floor, vacantly gazing at his violin.
Eddy just stares at him. “He's gonna know as soon as I open my mouth and talk.”
Ray sighs. “Wasn't that the point ? To freak him out by you being there?”
Eddy keeps looking blankly at him, panicked.
“Also, I think that's the least of your problems,” Ray tells him. “Now go! Have yourself a blind date, or whatever.”
“It's not an actual date,” Eddy says, but he does walk out the door, slow like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
Eddy walks onto the set. Camera operators take the next moment of silence to take zoomed-in shots of his face.
“Hey,” Brett says.
Eddy opens his mouth, closes it.
Brett sighs. “Hey, Eddy.”
“You knew?” Eddy chokes. “Since when?”
“Since you walked out as violinist ten, in the first round,” Brett says. “You've got, like, a recognisable gait or something. I could tell it was you in the room even before you started playing.”
“You've been fucking with me,” Eddy realises. He's trying to suppress his grin, trying to look mad, but the rising delight shows through and he knows it.
“You started it!” Brett protests. “Ray? Really?”
“It was funny!”
“And, I bet, so was your face when I pretended not to know you.”
Eddy laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I had, like, an actual crisis. Did it really sound like I had shaky bow?”
Brett shakes his head. “Nah. It was good; I just wanted to get you back. Speaking of music you played, when the fuck did you decide to learn Prok one?”
“After we filmed that video with Hilary,” Eddy admits. “And I only learnt the second movement. I was gonna show you in a few weeks, when it would have been good enough.”
“Good enough? ” Brett repeats, incredulously. “I already told you it was good!”
“No you didn't,” Eddy says. Brett can't see his face, but he can hear the change in tone. “You called it hot.”
Brett sighs.
“You kept calling my playing hot,” Eddy notes, voice a little sly, devious.
“Yeah, well,” Brett says, because he did, and worse, he meant it. “You kept getting jealous of Ray!”
“You didn't eliminate him! He was obviously going to win; he's the soloist.”
Brett laughs. He closes his eyes behind the blindfold, pointlessly. “He was never going to win.”
A beat of silence, in which Brett picks at the skin around the edge of his nails.
“Huh?” Eddy says, leaning on humour as a crutch. “Was my Prok really that good?”
Brett almost lies and agrees. Eddy wasn't better than Ray, though he was impressive. He's not a soloist, and it hadn't quite been polished. Brett almost lies, almost says he was. Eddy would realise, of course. He knows when Brett's lying. He'd be hurt. He'd feel patronised. Brett takes a breath and tells the truth. “Nah, not really. But it was you.”
Silence. Brett hasn't hated the blindfold until now. He can't see Eddy's reactions.
“Everyone else could tell,” he says, softly, for Eddy's ears only. “I heard you play, and I'd never pick anyone else. Not even on a fake blind date for a video.”
“Oh,” Eddy says. His voice is suspiciously teary. Brett can tell when he deliberately turns it joking, reaching for humour to hide genuine emotion from the cameras again. “What, because I'm hot?”
Brett opens his mouth, and then realises that he can't truthfully say no. It'd be a lie. Eddy knows his lying tells. Brett closes his mouth again.
“Holy shit,” Eddy says, sounding awed. “You actually -”
“Yeah,” Brett says, and decides fuck the video because he's tired of not being able to see Eddy, and pulls off his blindfold.
“You weren't meant to do that until you'd picked!” Eddy protests. There's his face, smiling, familiar, well-known. He still looks a little shocked, a little delighted even.
There's laughter from the crew. Brett had almost forgotten they were there.
“He's already picked,” someone shouts, and Brett shrugs: it's obvious.
Eddy's smiling still, a warm thing that lights his whole face. “Really?”
“Always,” Brett says, shifting self-consciously in his chair, looking up at Eddy.
Eddy drops to his knees so quickly that they make a percussive sound against the floor, bringing him level with Brett. “Hi,” he says. Then he leans in and kisses him. It's short, and sweet. Eddy's wearing lip balm, or lip gloss, or something. Strawberry, Brett thinks, as Eddy pulls back.
Brett licks his lips, tasting the residue. Yep, definitely strawberry.
Eddy makes a sound, low and sweet like his sul ponticello. He kisses Brett again, and Brett realises that he'd been holding back. This time, Eddy kisses him like the summers they grew up together in: sweltering, heat making its home inside Brett's lungs, strawberry flavour slick inside his mouth. Somehow, he's moved closer, and Brett's subconsciously moved his legs apart to make room for him. It's a glorious picture, Brett realises, with the scant thoughtpower he has left that isn't devoted to working out how Eddy likes to be kissed. This, here: Eddy, on his knees between Brett's legs, one hand fisted in Brett's jeans and the other in his hair, for once in his life being the one who has to strain upwards, making tiny sounds like he wants Brett to take him apart and consume him. Even in the harsh lights of the studio, it's a glorious picture.
That's the thought that makes him pull away, setting his hands on Eddy's shoulders to stop him when he tries to follow.
Eddy's eyes are so, so dark. His hair is a mess - that's probably Brett's fault. Brett can feel the waxiness of Eddy's lip product smeared around his own mouth.
“Eddy,” Brett says, going for cautioning and arriving at, mortifyingly, dark and warning. Eddy kisses him again, fast, biting at his mouth like he can't help himself. Here it is, again: strawberries and teeth. The urge to gorge himself.
“Eddy,” Brett tries again, tilting his head back, pushing down Eddy's shoulders. Eddy sucks at the soft underside of his jaw, hard enough to sting, certainly hard enough to leave a mark. Shit. Brett pushes again, feels the muscles Eddy's cultured there push back, and then Eddy cedes.
This, here, now: Eddy on his knees, mouth bruised red, tasting of summer fruit. This, too: a studio, bright lights, a camera crew. People Brett respects, nearby.
For an instant, he wants. He wants, furiously, to tell them all to get out, to pull Eddy back up or push him down lower regardless of if they leave or not, to make every depraved fantasy he's ever had come true.
“Sorry,” Eddy says, and presses his face into Brett's thigh, just seeking the contact, nothing more. His breathing is more ragged than it had been when he'd stood beside Brett and pulled a Prokofiev violin concerto movement out of thin air just because Brett had asked for something impressive. “Wrong place, I know, I know.”
Eddy looks up after a few gasping breaths, sees Brett's expression. He laughs, a little, settling back on his heels. “Kinky,” he says. Brett covers his face with his hands and laughs too, because it's ridiculous. He would never actually do it. He doesn't really even want to.
“Are you finished making out for now?” Ray calls. He'd come back out, Brett realises. Neither of them had noticed.
“Hands stayed above clothing,” Eddy shoots back. “That was chaste, Ray, honestly.”
It's a blatant lie. Eddy has no idea how it would have looked from the outside, but nothing he'd been feeling had been chaste. He'd just been desperate, and Brett had let him. Had wanted it, even. Wanted him.
“Uhuh,” Ray says. “How're you finishing the video?”
Aw, shit. Eddy looks at Brett, panic showing through. Brett looks back with the same panic.
Eddy sighs. He's got an idea, Brett can see it. Brett watches Eddy rock back onto his feet, pushing upright, hands clasped loosely in front of him. It's impressive, sometimes, the degree of control Eddy has over his own limbs. Then he stumbles, a bit, and has to put a hand on Brett's shoulder to keep himself upright.
Brett laughs at him through a sheen of satisfaction. Weak at the knees, huh. Who would have guessed.
“Do not say it,” Eddy warns, but he's laughing too. Brett grins at him, giddy.
“Okay,” Eddy says, looking around. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling it back into its standard disarray. He looks at Brett, assessing. “Okay. Hmm. We need to get the lip gloss off your face.”
“No shit,” Brett says, and somehow he manages to get himself back to the green room and find some make up wipes, or like, at least a tissue, and get it off. Lip gloss, not lip balm. That mystery is solved.
He still feels like his mouth is bruised into the shape of Eddy's own, but that's not visible in his reflection in the mirror. They hadn't spent that long kissing, not really. Just a few short moments. Three kisses.
He tilts his head, pats a bit of concealer over where Eddy mouthed his jaw. It hasn't really started bruising properly, not yet, but he doesn't trust that it won't show.
Brett walks back over to the set. “We'll have to cut most of the kiss,” he says, just to state the obvious.
“Most?” Eddy says, looking at Brett with some joyful variation on shock. Oh. Oh, Eddy'd thought Brett would want to cut all of it.
“Up to you,” Brett tells him. He doesn't need to add that he trusts Eddy's judgement. They both know that already.
Eddy hums, thoughtful. Brett wants to kiss him again.
“I ask if you've actually chosen me as the finalist,” Eddy recaps, typing something into his phone. Notes, probably. “You say always, I, uh, I get down and kiss you once. We cut it there.”
“Sounds good,” Brett confirms. He watches Eddy tap a few buttons, probably readying those instructions to send to their editor.
“We can cut to everyone standing here, like the opening,” Eddy says.
“I'll say thanks to everyone, make a joke about this being the last blind dating video for obvious reasons,” Brett adds, nodding along.
Eddy beams at him. “Lit,” he says. He wants to kiss Brett again. “Uh, then we all shout go practice and done, video over.”
Brett watches as Eddy gets everyone into places, ducking congratulations and cheers as he goes. “Hey,” he says, before they start cameras rolling again, “do we have dinner plans?”
“No,” Eddy says, distracted, and then he freezes. “Planning on taking me out?” he asks, intentionally light.
“Yeah,” Brett tells him, just to watch him understand, to watch his smile spread. “Hot pot, maybe? I was thinking we could find strawberries, too. For dessert.”
Eddy actually stumbles at that. Brett smiles.
“Wow,” Ray says, from where Eddy's directed him to stand. He's shaking his head, but he's smiling too. Everyone is, when Brett thinks to look. “I thought it would get better, but you two are actually worse than ever now.” It's teasing.
Brett lets his smile turn into a grin. “Thanks,” he tells Ray, and he means it.
This is what the final video ends up with: Brett, saying “always,” softer and more tender than he remembers. Eddy hitting the ground, saying “hi,” leaning in. A cut to a black screen. Elevator music plays. “FINALLY!!!” reads the text that appears. In smaller font: “trust me you do not want to see this.” Another cut: the studio again, all the violinists lined up, Brett and Eddy grinning wildly. “Thanks to everyone who came along; you guys were awesome,” Brett says. “You can find their details in the links in the description. This is gonna be the last ever blind dating video, obviously, but don't forget to like and subscribe!” Eddy takes his hand. “And,” Eddy says, and they all join in - “Go practice!”
Watching it back, Brett turns to Eddy. “Not too cheesy?” he asks.
Eddy shakes his head, then reconsiders. “Possibly,” he admits, “but I don't think the fans will care.”
“I can see the comments already,” Brett says, wryly, and hits the button to queue the video.
Eddy's kissing him before he even has time to close the laptop. Later, Brett will ask him to play the Prokofiev again, so he can see what he looks like, not just hear it. For now, he just closes his eyes and tastes strawberries.