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Chapter Text

Northern Italy, Province of Ferrara, 1660s.

“Fidellis!” the master’s voice carried across the workshop, calling for Eddy.

Eddy, who had been hacking away intently at a rough block of marble, cleanly finished off the section he was working on and then put down his pitching chisel. Wiping his clammy hands on his apron, he ran towards his master’s workspace at the very back of their workshop, his heartbeat palpitating with each step. Was he in trouble? Or was it an assignment? His master’s voice betrayed no emotions, and the ever-cautious Eddy did not know what to expect from his tempestuous teacher.

His master was successful at his craft because of his exacting precision and strictness, showing no mercy to his apprentices for their mistakes. Eddy was not looking forward to finding out that he was next in line for another session of backbreaking grunt work transporting to their workshop the raw materials of marble, limestone and bronze all the way from the hills, which were an excruciating half a day away. Raimando, a fellow apprentice, shrugged his shoulders at Eddy as he ran past him, signalling he didn’t know why Eddy had been summoned either.

Eddy reached the partition, knocked three times in deferential respect, and stepped into Master Giuseppe’s space. Certainly the largest in the workshop, it boasted its finest art, made by the expert hands of Giuseppe Fontana, the unparalleled sculpture artist of the city-state of Ferrara. Eddy would never cease to be amazed in the presence of Giuseppe’s works, observing their details unhurriedly and taking as many mental notes as possible from this privileged space. He tried to be inconspicuous whenever he did so – great masters never made learning easy and young ones often had to be quick and sly in gleaning secrets. He flicked his eyes away from the piece of Saint Francis quickly as Giuseppe looked up from his desk, keeping a neutral face on.

“You called, Master?” Eddy asked, keeping his head bowed.

Giuseppe raised his arm to signal his acknowledgement of Eddy’s presence and slid a piece of paper across his desk towards his student, inked with details in Giuseppe’s elegant script.

“I have a new commission from the wealthy merchant family of di Angelos that I would like to take up. However, it is some distance away – in the state of Cremona, where I will be unable to travel to in light of my current work for the Este family, which is getting more extensive. How do you feel about this?”

Eddy let out the breath that he didn’t realise he had been holding. He nodded eagerly. “I would love to, Master! Please give me the opportunity to!”

Eddy needed inspiration for creative endeavours and leaving their sleepy city-state from time to time was much desired for his rejuvenation. It didn’t come by often for him, as a relatively reliable sculptor in his own right for the upper-middle class families in their home state here. A journeyman like Eddy, who was a step up from the lowly apprentice and a step down from being a Master, gained the patronage of those who could not afford much Master-class artwork but could splurge just enough for apprentices and the more-experienced journeyman who had been trained by a respected master of the craft.

Hence, outfield work was often taken up by a more experienced journeyman or the master himself. Moreover, one would seek Masters from their own state, but Giuseppe had exceptional talent, well-known and revered in the North. It was to Eddy’s credit that he had been trusted with this.

“Good. I have been observing your work as of late and I am sure that you are well-equipped to handle this commission. It matches well with what your skills are – the finer details and embellishments, cautious diligence and a subject of tenderness. You will receive food, clothing and lodgings while you are there, where you are expected to design and sculpt for them their desired piece. Could be six months or twelve, you are to offer your services. One word from them, and you’re expelled from my workshop, you hear?” Giuseppe’s cold voice, which offered comfort in his first words for Eddy, had swiftly plunged into a threatening warning and command for only excellence.

Eddy nodded quickly and chose to say nothing else. He didn’t want to say anything which could jeopardise his chances of taking up this rare opportunity. “Finish up the rough work for Raimando to take over and be on your way to Cremona tomorrow.” Giuseppe waved his hand, dismissing Eddy. Eddy made a low bow and scurried out with the sheet of paper in his hand, jubilation rising in his heart.

He raced towards his friend, Raimando, who had his brows furrowed intently, polishing the marble bust he had been working on for the past few months. He heard Eddy’s approach, and put down his emery polishing stone and gave him his winning smile. Rai was a charmer, popular with the ladies in town, for his rugged good looks and toned body (thanks to his work) and youthful personality. He was a good, reliable colleague as well, and Eddy would miss him while he was away.

“So, what’s the good news?”

“Outfield, I’m Cremona-bound!” Eddy exclaimed jubilantly, raising the piece of paper in his hands to Rai’s eye level. His eyes sparkled as Rai scanned it.

 “Good job! I’ve learned as much from you as I’ve had with Master Giuseppe since I’ve arrived here three years ago. I’m absolutely sure you’ll do a fine job designing for them,” Rai praised his elder.

Eddy smiled modestly, and thanked Rai. Eddy had been an apprentice just like Rai had been, five years ago, before he won his right to the title of journeyman. He was astonished at how quickly Rai took to his learning and had been rather envious, but that soon dissipated because Eddy was genuinely hardworking and never begrudged fate – besides, Rai was the sweetest boy. Barely fourteen when he arrived, he had the air of innocence and quiet focus that allowed Eddy to easily communicate with him. Now that he was grown up a bit more, they became much closer as friends. He was going to miss Rai, but Eddy couldn’t resist the calling to a new place.

“You’re going to have to take over the carving of the sculpture I was working on for the church, though. I just started on roughing it out but Giuseppe trusts you to take over the job once I’m done with the shaping. I’m really sorry about it,” Eddy apologetically replied.

Rai shook his head, “It’s no trouble really, I’m almost done with the one I was assigned so taking over that isn’t going to be a problem. Don’t worry about me, just go ahead!” He flashed Eddy a smile again to reassure him, while pushing him back to Eddy’s space.

Eddy was charged with the electrifying feeling of his awaiting adventure, energizing his work for the rest of the day. He was a journeyman, only a step down from a full-fledged Master. He had been working towards his masterpiece for the longest time, and a masterpiece that was worthy of acceptance by the guild masters did not come easy. He lacked inspiration.

Cremona seemed the perfect place to strike jackpot: a charming town, he’s heard, a rustic place with the sweetest music, where people were jovial in spite of their difficult situation under Spanish rule. The rugged mountains and fertile riverside were home to interesting people, Eddy was certain. Perhaps the spark he’d been looking for all along, would be there. Eddy hoped, and dreamed, working all day with a spring in his step.

“Son! What is this that your father says about you going away?” Eddy’s mother approached him with haste, her voice a thin wail bordering on tears.

“Mother, it’s just for work, a few months, at most a year, that I’ll be in Cremona. I have to, Master may never give me such an opportunity again!” Eddy pleaded with her, trying to calm her down. “It’s truly important, this could be my ticket to gaining my Master title!” He looked desperately at his father, gesticulating for him to help calm her down. His father had taken the news mildly, and was even rather supportive of his son, but didn’t break the news to his wife delicately enough. Her complaints continued:

“My dear, you’re already a fine young lad of twenty-three, shouldn’t it be time to settle down, have a family? Why spend a year in a place so far from home? You have resisted betrothals for so long now, how can spending a year away further your prospects?”

“I shall say, it will quite increase his! Imagine telling a family that our son is not just well-employed, but highly accomplished! I look forward to that, and I forbid you from denying him that future! Now sit down, woman, we must have our dinner before it turns cold. Edward doesn’t need a cold dinner as his parting meal.” His father finally waded into the conversation and ended it decisively.

While still pouting, his mother made no other comments. Eddy knew she came from a place of love for her youngest son, while her older sons were already married, and his sisters betrothed. His lonely, anomalous state was an affair of great concern. But the truth was that Eddy was not at all concerned: his art was first, anything else only secondary. He had never been particularly entranced by the idea of a wife and family, despite its inevitability.

The next morning, Eddy was up bright and early, ready to go. After bidding his family goodbye and once again reassuring his distressed mother, he slung his knapsack of trusty tools and essentials over his shoulders, he mounted his donkey and set off westward for Cremona. It was going to take almost a week, and he had never been as excited as he was now. His first time out, on a prestigious assignment, on behalf of the most eminent Master of the region, to a far-off city promising new sights and experiences! It was as though the sprightly donkey was attuned to Eddy, and its pace picked up as they sped out of Ferrara without a second’s hesitation.

Northern Italy, Province of Cremona, 1660s.

Days and days of travel, taverns, inns, and sightseeing later, Eddy finally glanced at the map and his surroundings, pleased to realise that he had arrived in Cremona. It was clear that it was Cremona: a distinctly Italian city, yet occupied by the Spanish, the borders were full of people speaking in an unfamiliar tongue. He had made it in good time: it was midday, the sun was beating down, but its heat was softened considerably by the gentle spring wind, and everyone had taken the opportunity to come out now, shopping and socialising in mixed tongues of Italian and Spanish.

Eddy slowed down at the nearest tavern he could see, dismounted and went to ask for directions and advice towards the house of di Angelo.

“Son, there’s no way you can miss it. Tall, spiralling columns and the finest iron gates, you go straight down the road of this tavern and turn left, it’s right near the hills,” the barkeeper bellowed heartily. Thanking him, Eddy asked for a mug of beer and tipped him generously for it. The taste was refreshing, mild and sweet. It was a good omen, he decided.

Eddy pulled up at the gates of the house – no, house was too underwhelming a word. This massive mansion, of polished stone and intricately inlaid designs, was truly art. He suddenly wasn’t sure if he was the right sculptor to enter its gates and serve its masters, but it was too late. The porter and servants had arrived to receive him, swinging the gates open and leading him into the castle, through the twists and turns of a dizzying amount of rooms and sections, towards a brightly lit, airy and high-ceilinged room.

The ceiling was delicately painted with classical Greek references, showing the well-bred tastes of its master. The walls were adorned with ornaments and paintings, interspersed with works of marble. There were comfortable armchairs circling a large table, with a tall, elegant flower vase made out of what Eddy could see was very expensive Venetian glass commanding the attention as the centrepiece of the table. The bright arrangement of roses stood tall in their sophisticated container, equally dazzling and beautiful.

Eddy was mesmerised by the harmonious melody of the art in the room, so much so that he did not realise the servants retreating and their positions replaced by the man who had been waiting for his arrival. Eddy then realised that he was looking at a di Angelo himself. The man had a tall, thin frame, towering over Eddy, who considered himself relatively tall by Ferrara standards already. The man tucked away a few loose locks of his deep ebony-coloured hair behind his ear with a smooth flick of his wrist, revealing in its full intensity his clear, emerald green eyes. The piercing eyes softened as he smiled at Eddy, approaching him to give a welcoming kiss on his cheek and a strong, firm handshake.

Eddy returned the favour, taking a split-second to remember his mother’s etiquette lessons for what he had to do around noblemen. This man was clearly the epitome of youth, power and wealth, and Eddy didn’t want to bungle up his first impression on this man.

“Greetings, Edward de Fidellis. Thank you for coming to us on behalf of the great Master Giuseppe Fontana. I am Niccolo di Angelo, the oldest son and presumptive heir of the di Angelo family, and I will be overseeing your time with us.” He introduced himself, in a smooth, confident voice.

The strength he exuded had Eddy scrambling to keep himself in check, preventing his voice from tensing and stumbling over his words. Eddy collected himself, replying in a short, polite manner: “Thank you for placing your trust in me. I am glad to be here.”

Niccolo raised his hand, and one of the servants hurried over. “Serve us some refreshment, please.”

Nodding, the servant acknowledged her orders and ducked out of sight as Niccolo ushered Eddy into one of the armchairs before proceeding to the opposite side and speaking. “Now, while I would be greatly excited for you to start work as soon as possible, I understand that you have made a long journey here and quality rest is in order. I shan’t trouble you with considerations of what we want for our commissioned piece just yet. We will assign one of our trusty servants, Lisabetta, to you for the duration of your stay here. She will show you your accommodations and can be relied upon to bring you food, show you around, and assist in menial tasks as you may need. Ah, here she comes.”

Lisabetta strode in with a tray in her hands and set down glasses of wine for the two men and a platter of flavoured breads and wafers. She tucked the tray under her arm and gave Eddy a curtsey. “Sir de Fidellis, it is my pleasure to be of service to you.” Eddy nodded back in acknowledgment and turned back to Niccolo.

 “Lisabetta will show you to our finest guestroom for our visiting craftsmen and artisans, and then the workshop for your use that you may want to get acclimatized to. You are very welcome to be up and about around our grounds and outside should you choose to, and you are of course welcome to our dinner parties.” Di Angelo sipped at his wine, and continued, “We shall discuss what we want you to work on in two days, so feel free to settle in for now. My youngest brother, Lucio, is having his betrothal celebration tonight, so I extend my warmest invitation to you to join us tonight.” He finished off his wine and stood up take his leave.

Hastily, Eddy also stood up. “I look forward to seeing you tonight, Edward,” Niccolo said as he left the room, with a few servants following him.

Likewise, Eddy let Lisabetta lead him to his guest chambers, without saying much to her as he tried to drink in all of the artistry of the di Angelo palace. House, mansion, castle, palace, villa… he had no way to fully encapsulate the grandeur of this place, but he knew it was going to be an invigorating stay. His hands were itching to make sketches of the details already and mould and carve prototypes to capture the unique shapes he saw.

Twists and turns later, Lisabetta showed him to the guest chambers, and it did not fail to impress: almost similar to the meeting room before, it had painted ceilings, and carved marble and bronze works adorning the walls. In addition to the standard fixtures of a fairly large and comfortable-looking bed, shelving and a large work table, the large glass-panelled windows gave him a stunning view over the back garden.

“Well, that’s it, I must have lucked out for the rest of my life…” Eddy muttered under his breath, after gasps of awe. Beside him, Lisabetta chuckled a little.

“Every good artist we have had around, had the same impression. There is no finer place for artistic interpretation to happen.” Eddy dropped his belongings on the shelving, as Lisabetta continued to show him other places in the palace he had to take note of, such as her own room across the hall from his so that he could call on her for assistance if necessary, the workshop at the end of the hall, the dining room and ballroom. By the end of the tour, Eddy felt like he’d take a month to be able to find his way to the front door without getting lost five times.

Eddy was buzzing with inspiration by the time he returned to his own room, overwhelmed. What was supposed to be a few hours of relaxing sleep and recuperation became a mad flurry of sketching as his bursts of creativity took the reins in his mind. So many ideas, so little time, slow hands and a brain that couldn’t keep up with the decades that went into the making of this palace. Even if he had 40 hours in a day, he still wouldn’t be able to keep up. Times like this made him certain he had no better choice of vocation: he truly thrived, and he was happy to be making art and exist in the midst of what was beauty and soothing for the soul.

What felt like minutes were really hours, and Lisabetta was knocking at his door again. Eddy looked up from his desk to realise the last rays of the sunset streaming through his windows and he jumped up, closing his sketchbook and digging through his knapsack for the most presentable-looking silk doublet, pulling it on, patting down the creases. He ran his hands through his hair quickly and put on a red hat. He only hoped like chaos that he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb among the rich and important nobles.

 “Coming!” he called to his waiting servant, fastening the clasp of the grey doublet and its weird new-fangled accessories as he hurried towards his door. His heart raced with the excitement and fear of the unknown. He didn’t know why he felt so, but there was an intuitive gut feeling pushing at him to embrace whatever was coming his way.

Chapter Text

Banchetto: Insieme disinano e cenano con banchetti molto abondevoli di varii cibi e bonissimi vini. (Banquet: Together they dine and sup, the tables displaying a great abundance of diverse dishes and excellent wines.) – Matteo Bandello.

Lisabetta pulled the door open and held it for Eddy, who stepped into a room quite far from the very same dining hall he had seen earlier in the afternoon. The atmosphere, the colours, the smells, the sights, the sounds – it was as grandiose as it was overwhelming. He had never been part of such a gathering, hosted by the upper echelons of society. While he was decently well-bred, such an occasion he found himself in was unheard of back home, where his connections were much more limited.

“The visiting sculptor, apprentice of Master Giuseppe Fontana and distinguished journeyman, Edward de Fidellis!” The steward formally announced Eddy’s arrival to the guests who were already present, leading him then to his place at the banquet table beneath the dazzling ceiling with beautiful frescos. Eddy knew he could look at the frescos another day – the food was in front of him, a lavish affair that he was determined to savour.

The banquet table stretched almost endlessly, lined with more food than he’d ever seen before in his life. The dish plates themselves were already worth more than all of Eddy’s finest clothes put together, being of the highest-quality Venetian glass, but the food placed in them were clearly top-notch as well. Small, delightful pastries of exotic boar meat, fritters, pies, carp infused with the flavours of slices of citron, jellies, salads… all the petite dishes circled around the stars: the peacock with all its iridescent plumage displayed, was by far the most extravagant one.

The arrangements of the platters of food were also tasteful and artistic, and Eddy’s eyes feasted as much as his stomach would come to. There were even decorative marzipan figures and sculpted sugar models decorating the table, interspersed between the dishes, of the classical Aphrodite, Cupid and Saint Valentine to commemorate the joyous occasion.

Soft music played from the raised platform, functioning as a stage, that stood at one end of the hall, a slow, lyrical piece on the lute, a sort of interlude that reflected its audience: eager to tuck into the sumptuous meal waiting for them. Many other instruments and their cases were strewn about the platform, probably in wait for the post-dinner celebrations to be played. Truly, they pulled out all the stops for this banquet.

The people at the center of it all – the di Angelos, and the radiant betrothed of Lucio di Angelo – were announced, and everyone rose in respect, welcoming them into the hall as they took their seats. The patriarch of the household, Antonio di Angelo, stood up to give a speech thanking everyone for their presence and giving his heartiest congratulations to his son. Rousing applause accompanied his speech and goblets of wine clinked as hearty laughter and well-wishes arose, and it was in the midst of this bustling atmosphere that, like clockwork, the cooks came out to serve the first course. Each course was accompanied by live entertainment from musicians, singers and even jesters.

Even though Eddy was content to pay attention to the food and music, he had to make polite small talk with the people seated around him, who turned out to be visitors of the family as well, as consulted experts for the family business. While not wholly uninteresting, Eddy was much more preoccupied by the music: the rich, clear voices of the singers and the rippling, flowing melodies of the viola da gamba and the harpsichord were not things that Eddy had seen much before, and he was indeed fascinated. He didn’t like the recorder as much, but it was undeniable that these musicians were the cream of the crop, playing effortlessly and flawlessly.

Fino al giorno chiaro (until the light of day)

After stuffing himself with what must have been at least ten decadent dishes over the hours – he stopped counting halfway – the banquet gave way to an equally magnificent ball, where Eddy was also out of his depth. He didn’t think himself very good at dancing, but when the tempo of the music picked up and people started getting into the rhythm of it, everyone was eager to join in and pair up with whoever was beside them.

Feeling like he didn’t have much of a choice, Eddy hesitantly reached out to a young woman beside him, proffering his hand: “Young miss, it would honour me so to share a dance with you.”

She smiled, shyly extending her own hand to take his. “Bianca Morosini, daughter of Duke Bascio. I would be pleased to.”

Eddy held her waist with his other hand, and led her out onto the dance floor, trying to match her dainty footsteps with as much confidence as he could muster. They twirled round and round, and while she was a fairly pretty woman, with crystal-blue eyes set in a small and sharp face framed by soft, strawberry-blonde curls falling down her back and tickling his hand, he found that he couldn’t pay much attention to her. Owing to a lack of interest perhaps, as well as shyness, Eddy wasn’t sure. Eventually, the pairings broke up, as everyone linked hands in a circle to continue dancing, when a folk song started playing. Well, for someone who rarely danced except with his sisters, Eddy thought he was doing a fair job and even enjoying himself.

This eventually broke up too, as Lucio di Angelo called for the attention of the present guests and made an announcement, inviting a special musician to take the stage. Renowned in Cremona, the finest player yet of the new instrument, the violin, which was first crafted in this very state, he said.

“Brett Ziani offers his congratulations to the happy betrothed and has agreed to play for us this very evening on one of the newest Guarneri violins!”

Eddy was intrigued. What was a violin? He had never heard of it. It sounded like a viola de gamba, besides the fact that well, it clearly wasn’t. He moved closer to the stage to peer at the platform closely.

The most breath-taking sight arrested Eddy, rooting him still to the ground. The violinist, Brett Ziani, was made of the same material as classical Greek god statues, that much he was sure. He had thick, luscious and slightly tousled ebony-black hair, falling to his ears, which ordinarily made one look unkempt but, on this man, made him look like an angel instead, innocent and childlike. His skin contrasted nicely with his dark-coloured hair, his porcelain-white skin accentuating the light blush that powdered his cheeks from being at the centre of attention. His perfectly proportioned Roman nose looked delicately carved, as were his lips, bright and sun-kissed, lightly moulded. His features were contoured at the right places, without jarring sharpness. He had the softest, gentlest hands that gripped the bow and the peculiar instrument, lightly but confidently.

Brett was dressed in a dark blue doublet, woven with silver and gold threads shimmering lightly in the candlelight. The silver cape he had on made him look mysterious, like an eccentric wandering traveller, but complemented the doublet, reminding him of the night sky. And when he stopped praying to calm himself down, he opened his eyes, and lifted his bow. His thick eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, and Eddy looked right into those rich brown eyes, burning with determination. He held his breath as Brett brought his bow downwards, the full intensity of his expression never faltering in hesitation.

Brett pulled the bow on the strings of the strange, horizontal instrument that was settled in between his cheek and shoulder, which drew the most hauntingly sharp, clear and bright sound Eddy had ever heard in his life. The more Brett drew the bow, the more magic he spun around the room, around Eddy, and around his heart.

The music was warm, surrounding him and pulling at his heartstrings, embracing him. The orange and jubilant tones then melded together with a sense of overwhelming triumph, as Brett drew more powerful strokes, forcing Eddy’s soul to rise and sing along, and as the tempo picked up, off he went, he felt in himself the rising desire, the sensation of flying, suspended in nothing but air, cradled by the music. The dainty, carved fingertips flew gently and deliberately, a dizzying and furious blur, coaxing the music out of the instrument.

As Brett slowed down and pulled mournful sounds out of the violin, Eddy’s heart contorted in agony, grey tinging his senses as he plummeted from the flying weightlessness he seemed to be wrapped in just moments ago. Brett and his violin produced a concatenation of sensations, emotions and colours within him, and Eddy never wanted this to end. However, as with all good things, it did draw to an end, and the whole ballroom was so mesmerised when Brett came to a stop, leaving a lingering note in the air that Eddy could almost reach out and grasp.

Eddy was blown away, and his imagination ignited. Brett was a god, or the closest thing to a god, he decided. I want to sculpt this image of him playing, engrave it in my mind, etch it into human history. There has never be anything like this, and I want this to live on.

Unfortunately for Eddy however, he didn’t know how to muster up the courage to ask something like that, of a man that had never met him before, who owed him no favours. He was a god, Edward was a mere mortal, flesh and blood, while Brett Ziani was the finest marble, the flawless bejewelled beauty, immortal and immovable.

And his unsurmountable status was evident in how he casually mingled among the powerful guests – the di Angelos were an assortment of reactions, from gushing to beaming, impressed nods of approval, the family of Duke Bascio, and more. Brett was confident, clear and unintimidated in his engagements with other people, despite having put out a performance that wrung every emotion out of Eddy, that he would’ve thought, would exhaust the performer too.

Eddy knew with unwavering certainty, that this was what he wanted. How did he then, possibly make this happen?

It was most bizarre then – he spent the rest of the night furtively tailing Brett around the ball, keeping an eye on him and moving around while trying to look relaxed and unbothered, as Eddy kept searching for an opportunity to catch the man alone. But Brett had too much energy, and the wine did not faze him in the slightest. He took more wine, he had fun joining in some dances, he was up and about having spirited conversations with anyone who approached him.

Eddy kept waiting, and waiting, swinging between hesitation and an impulsive desire to throw caution to the wind and forcefully wrest Brett’s attention away from everything else. Even when Brett was alone, Eddy hesitated, wondering if he should bother him. Perhaps he wanted to catch a break too? How should he do it? Compliment his playing before asking about making him his model? Wait, should he be introducing himself first? What happens if he says no? It was agonising: the lightness, the tantalising sweetness of the violin in the last phrase Brett played was on loop in his mind, and it was driving him insane. He wanted catharsis, release, he wanted to carve it out, what beauty was, immortalise it.

Eddy remembered why he came to Cremona in the first place: he wanted to be in the unknown, he wanted to discover things, and that certainly couldn’t be achieved without some guts. So, he inhaled deeply, swallowed another goblet of wine, and marched over to Brett. His face frozen in a nervous smile, he tapped Brett on the shoulder, who was sitting down with his violin case beside him, polishing off his wine. Brett jumped a bit in surprise, but kept his composure as he turned towards Eddy hastily.

“I’m sorry, I was rather distracted. Yes?” Brett’s voice was deep and rich, just like his notes. Eddy was momentarily stunned by yet another layer of this man’s beauty, blanked out, the only words that tumbled out of his mouth were “willyoubemymodel?”

Brett stared at Eddy with a confused expression.

“Sorry, excuse me?”

Oh, shit. Mio Dio. Eddy realised that that was not the way to do it. All the rehearsed lines in his mind disappeared, and he clearly didn’t know what to say to this unplanned, unexpected response. Shit shit shitshitshitshit.

“Um. I’m sorry. I truly don’t know how to ask this, it’s kind of a weird request, I know, don’t worry, I know, but please hear me out, um,” Eddy gabbled, fishing for coherent words and desperately trying to string them together. “I really loved your playing on the violin…”

“Well, thank you very much… I’m glad you liked it. Who are you?” Brett replied awkwardly with a puzzled expression, furrowing his eyebrows, his face otherwise in a deadpan expression. Oh god, that was… adorable. No cherubic angel could rival the softness of that look. Brett shook his head a little, hastily adding and waving his hands, “I’m sorry, that came out a little too rude and interrogative. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Brett Ziani, violinist, once-apprentice of great luthier Andrea Guarneri.”

He elided Eddy’s awkward questions, for which he was very thankful for. “I’m Edward de Fidellis, I’m a sculptor and I’m a qualified journeyman under the Master Giuseppe Fontana.”

Eddy said, in the calmest, most confident voice he could muster. “I’m a visiting artist from Ferrara, commissioned for a piece of work for the next few months.”

Brett’s mouth curved open in surprise, which melted into a dazzling smile. “I’m sure you are a fine artist to have been employed by the di Angelos from so far away. Fontana is well-known here, although I must admit, I can’t say much about it for I’m more of a musician than an artist.”

“It’s alright, I’m just flattered on my Master’s behalf to hear that even someone unfamiliar with the field has heard of him! But what did you mean, that you were once a luthier apprentice? What happened?” Eddy asked, but realised how direct it seemed. “If you don’t wish to talk about it,  I understand.”

Brett shook his head. “No, it’s perfectly fine. It’s not much of a story, really. If you’re in this region, it’s not an unfamiliar story to most. I come from a family of musicians and painters, and they’re fairly well-known to most of Cremona. As a child I liked to build things more than play with them or paint. Creative, you know? But not what my painter father could work with. So, he sent me to Guarneri as an apprentice. I wasn’t half-bad, but Guarneri made me learn how to play the violin to better understand the nuances of making it. A stroke of serendipity, really, he discovered I was a better player than craftsman, made me study under one of Cremona’s prodigious players. I might still go back to apprenticeship one day, but I’ll see how far the playing takes me. It’s wonderful, really, to be playing, travelling around the city, out of the city, on commission. As a luthier I doubt I’d have this much adventure.”

Eddy was astounded. He very nearly might not have met Brett, had he been raised as another sort of artist. All the stars aligned, and he felt the full weight of how fortuitous tonight’s meeting was. “I see, I’m really happy that it worked out better for you like that. You’re a superb violinist and I can’t have imagined if your father hadn’t sent you to Guarneri. You know, he could have very well sent you to a sculptor, something along those lines…” he grinned weakly, trying to not let the rather embarrassing gushing spill over.

“Somehow, things work out, yeah?” Brett joked, attempting to lighten the mood. Eddy chuckled in his relief and Brett was certain he had never heard a lovelier sound emanating from anyone before. Brett’s heart squeezed a little, and he was mystified at this strange, unfamiliar feeling, and the way that Eddy’s laughter fell lightly on him, like a gentle caress, knocking at his heart.

Eddy grinned, with stars in his eyes as he replied, “Yeah, it really did work out. I can hear that when you play, and I’m sure it’s a gift to the world. Never lose that.” It was the perfect opportunity, and Eddy decided, to heck with it. I’m asking. “I’m sorry for the really abrupt way I tried to engage in conversation with you. I wanted to ask you, if you’d be willing to be my model for my sculpture. See – I got struck by inspiration when I watched you play, and thought, there would be no higher pursuit, than to try to immortalise in craft the beauty of your musical playing. I’m working on my masterpiece for my Master title and I’m completely certain, that this is what I want to inspire my masterpiece. It’s odd to no end, and, yeah, if you don’t want to, it’s alright, but I really want this to happen, and don’t worry I’ll pay you and everything,” Eddy rushed through his words, then shut his eyes pleadingly, opening them when Brett started speaking.

“Well… Thank you, Edward. I’m truly honoured by the request. It’s a first for me, sure, but can you afford it? I play for courtiers, noblemen, the cream of the crop. It’s going to be a strictly professional engagement.” Brett frowned as he replied, but the more he spoke, the more he felt that the wrong words were tumbling out.

Eddy knew that he had said it was fine if Brett didn’t want to accept this engagement, but somehow, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming disappointment rising up over him. He’d imagined it, hoped for it so much over the past hour, with an increasingly cemented desire to make it happen, that it somehow felt almost certain, even though it was an unreasonable request to pile onto someone he barely knew.

Eddy’s pleading eyes – soft, doe-like, shimmering – Brett somehow knew that he didn’t have the heart to turn him down, couldn’t find it within him to say no, especially to a fellow artist, a creator, who had his own dreams and passions just like him. Brett felt a strange compulsion that had never before taken root in him firmly set down roots now. I want to know him better, he thought.

“Alright.” Brett added, quickly, before Eddy replied in disappointment. “Forget what I said. That was mean. I don’t perform in the day anyway, and I’m free. If you want me to play as you draw and sculpt, it’s fine, I have to practice anyway. Doesn’t change my day. You’re paying for my food though.” Brett cracked another smile, which widened, mirroring the one that was emerging on Eddy’s face as well.

“Really? Really?” Eddy was grinning now, and oh, Lord. Brett could literally see the sunbeams glistening in his jubilant smile, and a flush of warmth spread through him. He knew he made the right choice. Now Eddy was wriggling, shaking with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and despite his lanky stature making this a strange sight, Brett couldn’t help but feel it was the most endearing, pure sight he’d seen in a long, long time.

“Thank you!” Eddy leaned forward and impulsively gave him a hug.

Brett smiled. “Brett Ziani at your service.”

Eddy bowed, taking Brett’s hand and kissing it lightly. “Edward de Fidellis. Please, call me Eddy. It would be an honour to have you.”

Perhaps the wine was working its way through their system, but this exchange was warm, spontaneous, and mirthful rather than awkward, given that they barely knew each other for fifteen minutes. And neither of them felt it was awkward. Again, it felt just right.

The music in the background changed, an up-tempo piece, and somehow that was an invitation for Eddy, in giddy relief and happiness and wanting to share it.

“Brett, want to dance?”

“Gladly.”

And so they went. Rarely were words exchanged, but that was just fine. They delighted in each other’s company and each other’s pleasure and euphoric laughter, all the way until the light of day and they parted at the doors of the ballroom, as guests streamed out, bound for home as dawn broke.

When they separated, with tender goodbyes, they felt the emptiness of their palms. Both of them felt the lingering warmth of the other’s fingers lingering on their palms, and tried to memorise the shape of them, capture the feeling of warmth, wishing for it to be filled again soon. To the next week, they thought.

Chapter Text

They had agreed, through mail correspondence the day after the ball, that Brett would meet Eddy the following Wednesday. His work for the di Angelos for the week leading up to it, therefore, was enlivened by the expectations and longing that nestled snugly in Eddy’s heart, of seeing Brett once again, the anticipation driving him to extreme productivity. Despite the excitement bubbling up within him, he was able to throw himself headlong into his craft, working with single-minded determination when it was demanded. Eddy’s skill was less a result of natural talent than it was that of his hard work and honed ability to concentrate and give his best, after all.

Throughout the week he had numerous consultations with Niccolo and even the man himself, Antonio di Angelo, on the piece that he was working on, a life-sized statue of Cremona’s patron saint, Saint Homobonus.

First, the sketches had to be produced, so that they could be sure that it was in the right style. Eddy had to (gladly) wander about the huge palace, examine the styles of the previously commissioned pieces, to come up with features that the di Angelos would prefer and to make sure that his ideas would fit their desired aesthetic. He was so enraptured by all he saw, resulting in long hours dedicated to multiple sketches all with only slightly differing features – he wanted to cover all bases, leave no stone unturned – so that the di Angelos would have a variety to choose from, and at least one could be what they wanted.

Every time he was inclined to distraction by his mind conjuring up an image of Brett’s eyes, the melodies he played, or his features, it had two effects. One, he had to directly counteract it by forcing out the memory of Master Fontana’s cold warning of excellence and focus (if not he would be fired) to regain his focus, or two, he found that the longing to see Brett again compelled him to work harder, sealing him in his bubble of absolute concentration, because he wanted to make significant gains on his work before he took some time off to see Brett.

And so the week went by like this: walking in circles around the palace, spending hours in front of a single piece of work that captivated him and sketching, thinking of Brett (and therefore, his Master, half of this time), closing himself off in his room late into the night to continue sketching, and repeat. Even Lisabetta was perplexed and concerned by how intensely Eddy was working every time she came in to serve him his meals, commenting that he really should explore the streets of Cremona once in a while.

“I haven’t seen an artist as fervent as you are, really. But please take care, sir.” Eddy was touched by her concern, and thus tried to make time for some conversation with her every time she came in, both to set her mind at ease about him overworking and as a way to thank her.

Finally, the Tuesday came when he and the di Angelos sat down for hours to pour over his work. Pages after pages, Eddy presented them with the hours of his hard work, with 10 comprehensively different ideas in terms of poses, classical references, the build of the Saint, the effect it was to convey, and so on. He explored so many possibilities that even the di Angelos were taken aback, pleasantly surprised and astonished by Eddy’s work. With so much material, it made narrowing down options decisively difficult, because Eddy had indeed fulfilled all their requirements in so many ways.

But finally, they did settle on one of them: Homobonus, being the patron saint of merchants and businessmen calling them to virtuous works, would be portrayed with his magnanimous hands wide open, kneeling as he looked skyward, alongside other flourishes, of his robes and money at his feet to be consecrated for good use.

The di Angelos were most delighted with the artistry involved, and Eddy heaved a huge sigh of relief after the meeting. His hard work paid off, and now his mind drifted to Brett Ziani once again, this time without the guilt of looming work hanging over him. Eddy had to wait for the shipment of marble before he could start work, giving him a week or more to simply unwind, relax, do whatever he wanted – in this case, work on his masterpiece.

Eddy was hopelessly intrigued by Brett, for some inexplicable reason.

The music he made and his looks mesmerised Eddy, but he knew that his brewing feelings were not just one of artistic admiration. The mysterious man, so powerfully and quietly confident, but also a curiously flustered man at certain moments revealing chinks in that serene, self-assured poise. He was a mystery that Eddy wanted to discover, more and more.

It was an unfamiliar force, niggling away at him, springing all sorts of unfathomable questions on him. What was Brett like as a kid? What did he like to eat? What did he do when he wasn’t playing the violin? Could he draw? Did he play other instruments? Why did his hair look so soft… and fluffy? Eddy himself didn’t know why he was so interested in Brett the person, when it was the music and his looks that enraptured him.

The eyes, shining and blazing like fine crystals, bore into Eddy’s mind, endlessly, his voice bloomed in Eddy’s mind, surrounding him, caressing him as his music did. This was how Eddy fell asleep on Tuesday night – smiling to himself, lulled to sleep by music that only he could hear, but the sweetest of all that he knew.

Wednesday morning. Like a child on his birthday, Eddy jumped out of bed bright and early without hesitation, despite how he usually dreaded the mornings. The ardour and zeal that he’d poured into his work recently would have left him exhausted on any other occasion, but not this. He just wanted to keep working, keep his hands moving, drawing, staring at beauty. He was meeting Brett today! 

He spent quite some time putting on his best clothes where he debated which one suited him the most, how to pair them, trying frantically to pat down the disobedient creases and smoothen them out, and also fixing his horrendously messy and unkempt hair. He then looked at the clock on the mantelpiece when he was done. Ten in the morning, it said. Three more hours! Brett had promised to show him around his favourite part of the city and have lunch before they got started on the modelling. He was entirely serious about meals being on Eddy, but Eddy didn’t mind, not at all.

Eddy’s anticipation was overwhelming, and he sat down, doodling while munching at the butter bread that Lisabetta had set out at his door for breakfast. He started with the side profile of Brett, as he recalled it. Some features were fuzzy, but for the most part, he thought he got it right. The excitement within him grew, as his pencilled sketches grew in detail, and his imagination joined in the mix as he caught sight of the vase of flowers on his desk. Lisabetta had chosen irises today. He imagined Brett, with flowers in his hair. Irises, in varying shades of blue, violet, white, pink. Or white lilies? He had the face of an innocent child, a pure angel. Hmm. Pink suited him.

He tucked that image away in his memory. Whatever for, he didn’t know. But it was a perfectly soft and endearing image, warming his heart. And now he added the violin tucked under his chin, and then expanded on the rest of the body. He wished he could see this for himself one day.

Brett, surrounded by flowers, playing the violin, with birds chirping in the periphery, and the last rays of the sunset dancing around him. Like a half-god, divine in nature, a blessed faerie, Brett was.

At this point, the clocks in the massive mansion resounded, striking twelve noon. Eddy was racing out of his room on the first chime, flying down the staircase to the stables to pick up the stallion. One more hour, and he’d better get moving. Saddling up, he was hurtling towards the town centre.

He was surprised to see Brett already there, given that Eddy was nearly thirty minutes early. Sitting down in front of the fountain with his arms crossed, Brett was gazing at the street in front of him, buzzing with activity and thronged with the old and young alike as they hawked and haggled wares. Brett’s dainty fingertips were tapping along to a rhythm in his head on his arm, his head moving along almost imperceptibly too. Seeing him in the flesh again and from afar after what felt far too long, he was startled all over again by how reality was so much more concrete and perfect than what the memory could capture. It was like the sunsets that his father painted, but never seemed to be equal to what Eddy himself saw with his own eyes.

Eddy’s heart was pulsating wildly, both from the furious speed that he was going at on his way here, and the awestruck feeling that descended upon him, feeling once again that he was scrabbling for words to proffer without seeming too eager or overenthusiastic or embarrassing to Brett.

Brett hadn’t noticed Eddy just yet, so Eddy went to a nearby stable at the corner of the arcade and dismounted to leave the stallion there, feeding it something to thank it for its service. It was a privilege too as an employee of the Di Angelos – his own personal transportation in the form of the finest white stallion Eddy had ever seen.

As he hurried back to the fountain, he was yelling mentally to himself the whole way to keep it cool. Let Brett talk, let Brett talk, think before you speak, say hello, don’t go beyond two sentences… a litany of reminders cycled through his mind as he approached Brett.

Before Eddy had made up his mind on how he should say hi, Brett turned towards his left slightly, arms outstretched as he smiled, basking in the sunshine. A wide smile flitted across his face as he stretched himself, somewhat like a cozy and content cat, Eddy thought. As his arms relaxed and he drew them back towards himself, he saw Eddy from the corner of his eyes and turning his head towards Eddy, made eye contact with him. The smile that was beginning to dissipate from his face emerged again, as Brett made the first move. He jumped up from the stone seat, picked up the violin case at his feet and slung it over his shoulders, quickly heading towards Eddy.

“Eddy! Good to see you,” Brett exclaimed, holding out his hand for a handshake. However, he hesitated, seeming to withdraw his hand slightly towards himself and leaving it in an awkward state of dangling in mid-air for a split second. “Actually this seems a little too formal and awkward, but…”

Seized by an overwhelming wave of gratitude, and relief, Eddy clasped the proffered hand in both of his. So, Brett was unsure too, for all his projected confidence. Eddy was just glad Brett didn’t regress into a cold, professional figure considering how much he’d wanted to know Brett better.

“That’s fine. Thank you so much, really, thank you for agreeing to this,” Eddy gabbled, grinning from ear to ear as he said it.

Brett felt the slight twinging of nerves in him from his hesitation fade away with Eddy’s dazzling, impish grin.

Brett had been unsure of the strange proposition that the sculptor had made, but after the party that night, he knew that he wanted so badly too, to get to know Eddy. He was interesting, he was beautiful, he was endearing. Brett wasn’t Mister Friendly, and never went out of his way to create emotional connections, rather taking it spontaneously, and turning up here this afternoon and offering to do more than professional work was about the most spontaneous overture he’d ever offered someone.

But of course, neither of them realised that this feeling was mutual.

“Shall we go?” Brett responded, and before Eddy could withdraw his hands from Brett’s, he pulled Eddy along, towards his favourite inn, and instinctively, Eddy held on tighter, shifting his left hand to grasp Brett’s wrist. It was exhilarating, running along an unfamiliar street, but with his hands tightly wrapped around those of someone who made him see stars.

Barely a minute later they were at the end of the street, in front of a cozy-looking place. “Osteria del Fiore”, the name of the inn, was written in elegant script on a sign, hanging over the main entrance, and below it, “Caffè della Rosa”. Brett pushed the heavy oak door open, then shrugging out of Eddy’s grasp, made a low sweeping bow to Eddy. “After you, please.”

Eddy was so taken aback, laughing first from the surprise of a gentlemanly Brett being coquettish, but then Brett popped up again, his face also contorted in laughter.

“Come on!” Still laughing, Eddy stepped over the threshold and beckoned for Brett to come in as well. Both of their faces were flushed, from the sprint over, and also from the mirthful laughter.

Brett led him to his favourite corner of the inn’s café. “Wait here, I’ll go order the food.”

And saying that, he flitted off in a jiffy, leaving Eddy alone to peer outside the window with clouds drifting by lazily and observing the café’s interior. A somewhat damp, dark place with a strange mix of stone and oak panelling and bizarre knick-knacks hanging on its walls, it was certainly something that was rather commoner in leaning than aristocratic and Eddy relaxed a little in this setting. A week had certainly felt too long, in the lavish setting of the palace being a surfeit of extravagance for him. While undeniably comfortable, he was more at home here, where he wasn’t subjected to the scrutiny of manners and words.

While Eddy was still mulling over his thoughts, Brett was back, with a tray of food in his hands. He swiftly set down the huge mugs of beer and two huge pies. “Best chicken pie in the entire country. Well, not that I’ve travelled around the whole country yet, but it’s pretty much impossible to beat this, I’d say.”

Eddy couldn’t have agreed more. Thus they settled into a comfortable silence between them as they dug in.

Brett was composed, not being surprised at the exquisite flavour, and so he was observing Eddy opposite him. He loved seeing that face light up, he realised. He was rather disappointed that Eddy finished it so quickly hence, but then the beer hit Eddy’s taste buds and once again Brett saw that contentment spread across his face. Sipping at his own beer, he felt it was a good time to engage in casual conversation.

“So, what do you have in mind for today? I was thinking of practicing for three hours because there’s this piece I need to perfect in time for a dinner party tonight. The ensemble I’m in has been hired for the night, and it’s some distance from here so I have about 4 hours at most here.”

Eddy thought for a moment, and responded, “I don’t have much planned for today. It’s about getting to understand the body’s anatomy in relation to violin playing, because I haven’t seen the violin prior to you, so watching you play is just fine. Some idea generation here and there, of possible poses and the style in which I would approach the sculpture. Of course, I would need you to model a few more times until I get a proper final sketch out…”

“Definitely, that sounds fine. I usually practice at a park if I’m not at home or at the musicians’ guildhouse for rehearsals, it makes for good practice when it comes to nerves because everyone’s staring, and now you too,” Brett chuckled and took another swig of beer. “And on a more serious note, most musicians are hired for private events so the commoners and peasants don’t get to hear the violin often. So I like to perform in the park or on the streets once in a while, just to share that joy.”

“That’s amazing…” Eddy breathed in wonderment. His heart felt like it was blooming flowers at what he heard of Brett’s generosity. His privilege meant that while he didn’t necessarily struggle to drop in on performances at home, it also meant that he never thought of what it was like to not be able to enjoy entertainment regularly. And Brett was right – such a new instrument deserved to be heard. He suddenly felt even more invigorated by his task and certain of the subject of his masterpiece. Brett, and the violin. He wanted to share that with the world.

Draining off the last drop of beer, Eddy stood up and went over to the barkeeper to foot the bill. He turned to Brett, who was just getting up too.

“Let’s go!”

“Just play. Anything. Like you normally do, and ignore that I’m watching you,” Eddy reassured Brett, who had his bow rosined and strings tuned but was staring hesitantly at Eddy, his little head cocked to the side while waiting for instructions from Eddy.

They were at a gazebo in the park, and in the afternoon, it seemed to be void of many people. It was mostly children frolicking around, with their caretakers drifting about keeping an eye on them, and a sprinkling of people taking leisurely strolls. And surrounded by the trees and shrubbery around, Eddy became cognisant of his morning sketch, especially when he flipped open his sketchbook to see Brett surrounded by flowers.

Eddy’s ear-splitting smile didn’t go unnoticed by Brett, who was staring at him, and then moving closer to him to peer at the sketchbook. Eddy quickly flipped the blank page over it and shuffled a few papers to cover his fantasy-sketch, his face pink with embarrassment.

“What’s got you smiling?”

Eddy shook his head rapidly and choked out, “Nothing”.

Brett didn’t look very convinced, but let it slide as he started to warm up, playing some slow scales while trying to smoothen out the sound and wake his fingers up. Every sweep of the wrist was careful, deliberate and yet, so light. Eddy stared intently, a bit too long rather without moving his pencil. Brett stopped, noticing this.

“Anything wrong? Should I go on?” he seemed genuinely concerned and uncertain, hoping that Eddy was getting the visual input he needed.

“No, no, really. It’s fine. I was, well, studying the… angle at which the wrist goes…” Eddy said, and then moved his fingers to capture down his observation. Honestly, he wasn’t even thinking about that. He was busy thinking of the smoothness of Brett’s movements, and the softness of Brett’s palms grasping his earlier that day, and how faerie-like his movements were when playing even just a simple scale. While it wasn’t wholly irrelevant to his task at hand, he realised just how far his thoughts were swerving away from his objective here. In the zone, he thought to himself. Focus.

Eddy did manage to focus intently, at least for the next ten minutes in which Brett played different scales, seriously taking down notes, sketching anatomical references and trying to capture the balance of tension and relaxation in the way Brett was manipulating the bow, before his concentration was broken by Brett moving on to something new.

Instead of the smooth, simple and resonant string of ascending and descending notes, he was now playing a much more complex melody, the rhythm upbeat and joyous and Eddy stopped again to admire it. Brett’s body was moving and swaying much more as the tempo became faster and the music more alive, while the arm movements had a lot more variation in its angle of movements. Those were the only barebone details that Eddy noticed before he stopped completely, mesmerised by the sounds that Brett was coaxing out of his violin.

His eyes were almost closed throughout the entire passage, playing peacefully and with quiet confidence. He knew this music so well, had it at the back of his hand, and he could nail it in his sleep.

Eddy was so enthralled by the music that he didn’t realise that Brett’s eyes were no longer as shut as he thought they had been – while his dainty eyelids had been lowered, Brett was still able to notice how Eddy’s arms went slack again as he stared at Brett, mouth slightly agape, with the same shiny eyes that he remembered seeing from the ballroom that night.

Did he really like seeing him play that much? He thought to himself, and that thought made him all warm and fuzzy inside. Eddy was truly child-like in demeanour in many ways, he supposed. Brett’s fingers were flying, and too soon did it come to an end that Eddy was disappointed.

“Another one?” Eddy pleaded, pulling that all-too-soft look on Brett once again.

Brett raised his eyebrows. “Were you watching or taking notes?”

“Well…” Eddy smiled, sheepishly. “You definitely have to play many more times. I’m not at all effective, when you’re too good at this and I end up getting distracted…” Trailing off, Eddy flashed a sheepish smile, scratching his head with the end of his pencil.

Brett’s heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushing, first from the compliment, and second, from how adorable Eddy seemed. He opened his mouth, scrabbling for something to say, but nothing came out. Usually, his replies to comments were brief and nonchalant. But this time, he was at a befuddling loss for words. He tried again.

“Um… well. Thanks?” he ventured, hesitantly. Brett’s face lacked expression, so Eddy couldn’t see the turmoil his words sent his companion into. Brett paused again, and tried to change the subject, and pull it back onto what they were there to do.

“Say, do you know how the violin works?”

Eddy looked up. “I know, roughly, through observation. But given that I haven’t seen one before until I met you that day, my understanding of it is fairly limited.”

“Do you want to learn how to play it?”

Eddy’s eyebrows furrowed at the suggestion that Brett seemingly plucked out of thin air, startled by the question. Before he could respond with an incredulous “What?”, Brett continued his train of thought.

“Well, I was thinking, it might be more intuitive to learn the basic mechanisms of how to play the violin first-hand. To faithfully reproduce it in your art – I would think that you want to – you might struggle less when you actually do it, you know? Maybe to understand the anatomy, you’d find it easier to hold the bow and play something simple yourself and experiment too. Test the limitations, what’s a natural and an awkward position.”

It did make sense to Eddy (and might stop him from being distracted by Brett’s playing and actually focus on how the violin is played) but one glaring problem was in the way.

“I thought you agreed to this because you could practice while I observed. You know, watching you practice, I might take only four or five sessions to come up with a comprehensive sketch. Even though you have a good point there… I don’t want to impose.”

Brett shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll do it bit by bit each time, you can watch me practice for the rest of the time, if that helps. But I do think this is a long-term endeavour, and so is the violin, so it only makes sense. I teach the new apprentices anyway, so it’s nothing too strenuous.”

Eddy continued to gape at Brett, stuttering out “I’m not sure” even though he genuinely, really wanted this. More time with Brett. After the entire afternoon so far, he knew that his previous interest in getting to know more about Brett was not unfounded. A man of not just pure beauty, but of depth, it was like God giving him a golden opportunity, right here. The only tiny problem was that he couldn’t afford to pay Brett for his time, for what it’s worth.

Without even blinking however, Brett blurted out: “It’s not a bad idea, really. Don’t worry about paying me or anything. I seriously doubt something so interesting of an experience will ever come by again, and I intend to make full use of it. It’d be nice to s-“ Brett stopped, panic flashing on his face for almost having the wrong words tumble out. But his face settled back into his usual neutral look, and he continued, “It’d be nice to see something accurate from your work, so I’m going to put in my best effort.” Brett gave Eddy a huge smile, a little too unnaturally bright, however, in a desperate attempt to cover up that panicked moment.

Eddy hesitated, licking his lips a little. He wanted so desperately to say yes, but again, he didn’t dare ask too much.

“Maybe, can we do that tomorrow? And see if this works? I mean, if it’s too much, we can just go back to the original agreement. You play, I observe. Look, Brett, it’s a wonderful idea. Thank you for being willing. I’m just… It’s asking too much of you.”

Brett exhaled a little bit. “Yeah, I get it, yeah… how about…” He then thrust his bow into Eddy’s hands. “We start now. No time to lose, as you say, Mr de Fidellis.” And he winked at Eddy.

Chapter Text

“Here’s the bow, and your thumb goes here, near this crook…” Brett stood beside Eddy, bringing the bow closer to Eddy’s line of sight to demonstrate how to hold it. “And then curl your fingers a little over this part like this,” continued Brett as he gestured to the specific point of the wood near the frog, and then offered the bow to Eddy for him to replicate the position.

Eddy cautiously took the bow from Brett and tried to imitate how Brett had held the bow with his right hand. It felt strange, with his thumb at that tiny awkward spot, and both his thumb and fingers were locking up, gripping the wood so tightly in the tenuous hold as to prevent it from falling out of his hand. Brett watched Eddy attempt the bow hold. He furrowed his brows when he saw how Eddy’s entire hand, forearm, and even shoulder were taut, imbued with far too much tension than was necessary.

“Relax your wrist more, soften the grip a little…” Brett started, but at that moment the bow fell out of Eddy’s fingers and clattered to the stone floor. Eddy gasped, swiftly reaching down and swiping it up before Brett could respond. Brett was in shock, instantaneously pouncing on the bow to examine it for any possible damage, peering carefully as he turned it around.

Eddy quickly removed his hands from the bow, cringing as he profusely apologised. “I’m really sorry, Brett, I’m really sorry!”

Eddy didn’t know how much these things cost but being a professional artist himself he knew that it was likely either expensive or it had sentimental value, and thus was far more valuable. He felt awful, all sorts of emotions coursing through him – panic, fear, regret, guilt – as the minute that Brett took to slowly examine his bow felt like forever. Longer than the hours he’d slogged away as an apprentice, carrying marble up slopes and staircases. Brett’s face betrayed no expression, only the intense concentration as he scrutinised.

Brett’s face however suddenly softened, the harsh intensity melting away like snow in spring sunshine as he looked up at Eddy. “Don’t worry about it,” Brett said, smiling. “It’s totally fine. I wasn’t too worried about it, the Guarneris do make solid bows that could very well survive a slight tumbling. I took my time with it just in case.”

Eddy’s lips were pressed together, and the smile that emerged was a tight-lipped one, barely reaching his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, this time. The tightness in his chest loosened up a little, but he couldn’t push it away entirely.

Brett looked at him, bewildered by Eddy’s persistent apologies and his distress, which he thought beyond proportional for what had happened. He couldn’t understand what the other was thinking, trying once again to extend the bow towards Eddy.

He was hesitant, his arm wavering as he accepted it gingerly, replicating the bow hold he had been taught. Now, it was once again too tense, Eddy gripping the bow so tightly, like a fragile item (it was, to him), like he would rather die than let go of it.

Brett sensed the anxiety creeping up on Eddy, and without thinking, he reached out his own hands for Eddy’s, adjusting his fingers and running his hands over Eddy’s arm to point out where he should relax his muscles. While correcting his fingers came rather instinctively, doing just like he did with the younger musicians that he taught, Brett was focused on what stood out from the usual: Eddy’s calloused fingers and palm, roughened by his work, had much more strength than Brett’s soft, delicate hands. They were so different from his, but also so entirely warm, that Brett’s own fingers lingered a little too long as he moved them in the correct position, before letting go.

For Eddy, his relief was palpable with Brett correcting the grip rather than leaving him to struggle and drop the bow once again. Yet, he was also trying to keep his calm, with Brett so near him, his fingers grazing Eddy’s and then touching.

It was so distracting to see Brett up close, that whatever he was supposed to ingrain into his memory of Brett’s adjustments flew out of his head. But the fear of destroying the instrument jolted him back to the reality, of focusing on holding the bow and recalling the sensations and how it looked. And so he did, trying his best to pull back his wandering mind. Somehow, ever since he set foot in Cremona, his mind had been wandering far too much for his own liking.

“Right, like this. So for reference’s sake, remember, the middle finger’s aligned to the thumb, and the pinky’s on the wood itself. And now, this angle, and this range of motion for the wrist,” Brett mentioned, while shifting Eddy’s currently floppy wrist. Eddy nodded, but already started feeling the discomfort of the position. And this was without the violin itself!

He made a mental note to toss out one of his sketches from earlier – it did not look like what he was seeing right now, in front of him. Without warning, Brett slipped his own violin onto Eddy’s left shoulder, tugging at Eddy’s left hand to prop it up and adjusted them to the right position before tugging at the bow Eddy was already holding, to land on top of the violin’s strings.

Fascinated, Eddy didn’t wait for Brett’s instructions but tried to pull the bow across the strings with some force, just like he thought Brett did. What came out, however, was the most awful sound he had ever heard in his entire life, a sharp and uneven screech, a wail apt for waking up his ancestors. He was so shocked that he started laughing, the tension from his previous worries flowing away as he cackled over how ghastly his first attempt was. Brett had made it look so easy!

Brett was suppressing a giggle of his own as well. Eddy was exactly like a new student, in how the overflowing enthusiasm collided head on with the reality of the instrument for beginners. Despite how appalling it was for Eddy, he couldn’t stop laughing, as he tried again, the second bow stroke no better than the last one.

Brett moved closer to Eddy, rising up on the balls of his feet to try and reach over Eddy’s shoulder comfortably enough for his hands to land on Eddy’s arm so that he could guide him. While Brett wasn’t that much shorter than Eddy, it was indeed a tad bit uncomfortable.

Adjusting the trajectory of the bow on the A string and shifting it neatly in between the fingerboard and the bridge, he then placed his hand on Eddy’s bow hand, and guided him, pulling it downbow. A slightly shaky, but otherwise resonant sound came out. Shifting the trajectory the tiniest bit, Brett deftly pulled it upbow, the string crossing to the D string smoothly.

“Wow!” Brett looked up a little in Eddy’s direction, to see his eyes alight again. Eddy didn’t understand exactly how, but the weight and pressure applied had changed and somehow, Brett’s steady hands had produced a proper sound with flourish. At this point, Brett was bobbing up and down a little unsteadily on his tiptoes and he had to stop, swapping over to standing in front of Eddy. Blasted height difference.

For the rest of the hour, Brett instructed Eddy on how to play the open strings, trying to refine his understanding of the intricacies of the instrument. If the hand-touching bothered either of them, they didn’t show it. But unknown to the other, they each had to repress these strange – but not unpleasant – feelings towards this situation and that thought niggling at the back of their mind that they wouldn’t mind if this had went on for a bit longer.

All too soon however Eddy’s arms were exhausted by the constant repetition and the sun was beginning to set, meaning that Brett had to go off soon. He still hadn’t practiced what he said he had to for the evening, so Brett had to call a halt to the lesson. Eddy had been so distracted that the fact that Brett had to disappear off soon eluded him.

That fear and guilt which had plagued him at the beginning rose up again, at the thought that he’d taken up an offer that was nothing but a hassle to Brett. First almost breaking his bow, and then eating into his practice time. The last traces of his smile evaporated, replaced swiftly with a stressed frown as he quickly pushed the violin back to Brett and retreated a distance away to pick up his sketchbook again.

“I’m sorry,” Eddy said in a serious tone, softly. He felt horrible. He was truly asking for too much.

This time though, Brett was not having it. He moved closer to Eddy, compelling him to look him in the eyes, before he said:

“Look, you’ve said this to me so many times today. I agreed to help, I’m putting in a hundred percent for you, and I won’t do it unless I’m certain this is what I want to do. If you’re not certain however, then we can stop.”

Eddy’s eyes widened at the last bit, delivered with a little more acridity than what he had been used to hearing.

Brett suddenly felt that his tone was unwarranted. In trepidation, he quickly added, straining to ensure that his tone would not reflect any sort of harshness: “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. I just want you to be confident. We’re partners in this, Eddy. I know you’re concerned and I’m ever so grateful to you for being so considerate. But you have my word that I will not overly inconvenience myself because of this. Alright?” He instinctively reached out for Eddy’s hand and enveloped it in his. It was still smaller than Eddy’s, but strong, squeezing it in reassurance.

“I’ve already prepared a lot for tonight’s piece, just a run through or two will work. Listen for me, please?” Brett asked, placing the violin on his shoulder and readying his bow, all while still looking at Eddy with the warmest, most imploring look in his eyes. He wasn’t sure at all of Eddy’s feelings, but he didn’t want him looking so… vulnerable in front of him. So unconfident and hesitant, the complete opposite of the passionate man that had captured his attention to the extent that he, Brett Ziani, was standing here at this very moment instead of being at home, all alone. If his playing could light up his eyes again, then he would do it.

“Sure.” This time, Eddy smiled in return, feeling that lightness return to him once again. Brett was sometimes intimidating and rough at the edges with his expression, but he was so gentle, and the confidence with which he just spoke to Eddy was so convincing. Gripping the pencil, his hand was poised, his eyes on Brett, who nodded.

“Claudio Monteverdi. Chiome d´oro.”

With that, Brett started, pulling out a melody so bright and light, like flowers springing to life and carefree faeries fluttering around them. The notes were skipping around, every pause in the music like a breath inhaled before jumping towards the next note.

Eddy was enchanted, as always, but his hands were moving, flipping back to the page he had worked on earlier that day of Brett and flowers. He then quickly worked on refining them, the shape of Brett’s closed eyelids, the tranquillity that settled on his face as he played, and added new sketches to shape the movement of his wrists, now that he knew slightly better about it. The short lesson had opened his eyes to the minute details – ideal shapes and positions of each finger, the upper body positions, a dozen things that controlled the ever-changing pressure that Brett’s small but determined hands exerted on the bow.

All too soon however, the piece drew to an end. Eddy’s hands were working furiously to process what his eyes saw, and continued even after Brett had returned his instrument to his case. Once he was done, he eagerly showed the page to Brett.

“That music was so exquisite, light and flowy! Like a sunlit garden, and this is what came to mind.” Eddy was excited – his previous reservations about showing him that page had vanished with how perfectly Brett had given life to his whimsical imaginings.

Brett’s jaw dropped. Eddy had captured his visage so carefully and accurately, first of all. In fact, he probably paled in comparison to the perfection of the features. Secondly, the flowers. Unknowingly, Eddy had drawn Brett’s favourite flowers too – irises. It wasn’t anywhere around where they were in the garden, so at random, Eddy had gotten it? Thirdly, the flowers and nature itself that Eddy depicted showed that he saw the music the same way that Brett did. They had the same image come to mind with the same rhythm. Eddy was a brilliant artist, but the coincidence sent Brett reeling in shock. Intuition? Luck?

“Eddy, you’re an amazing artist! And…. you know, I thought of that too, as I played. Flowers, birds flying, the garden.”

Eddy’s wide smile only grew, in his unabashed amazement and delight that Brett loved his work and that he had pinned down the music, which he thought might have eluded him. After all, Brett was the musician.

“Irises are my favourite flowers too, incidentally.”

“Ah, well, yeah… nice coincidence, isn’t it? But I’m glad you like it! And that the flowers were to your liking!” Eddy’s response was enthusiastic, and he tucked that information away in his mind. For what reasons, he didn’t know, but it was something about this enigmatic man, at least.

“Thank you for today, Eddy. I really did enjoy myself, and your work gives me much pleasure. We can meet again next week?”

“It really should be me thanking you, Brett, but I think you know that already. I’m relieved you enjoyed yourself. Write to me, when you’re free.” Eddy replied, starting to pack up as well.

The last of the sun’s rays cascaded down, filtering through the large trees in the park in beautiful pools and slowly faded away as the sculptor and the violinist parted ways with a firm handshake. Once again, they held on to the memory of each other’s hands, but that day, they took away with them the memories of the afternoon, that were equally warm as the memory of the other’s touch. Like this, they found their way into each other’s minds, replaying the memories, thinking of the other fondly, while waiting for their next meeting.

Brett was warming up, together with the other performers, the sopranos, the harpsichord player, the lute player and his second violin. It was almost like clockwork, really, given how often they’d worked together as part of the same guild, going to their music engagements together. He was hardly a fan of casual conversation, especially when he had to be focused. But this time round, he had an unexpected source of distraction as he wriggled his fingers and played a few scales: Eddy de Fidellis.

The simple scales reminded Brett of the afternoon with the sculptor, running through simple scales for him, and with him. Brett found himself playing the scales a lot more slowly than he’d usually do, as the wheels in his head ran and worked out how he could break down this process to show his student. He’d remind him, to keep his fingers here, to adjust the pressure when he felt this bump here, and…

The harpsichord player, Ludovico, was tapping at his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said simply, pointing Brett to the rest of the ensemble, already raring to go. He quickly turned towards them and waited for the cue to start playing. Starting off, Brett had to consciously focus, concentrating on the precision of the music in order to distract him from his thoughts rather than losing himself in the emotion of the music.

The very same piece of music that Eddy had just heard, and his exquisite drawings that Brett was reminded of with this piece.

And gradually, as Eddy’s smile emerged in his mind’s eye, Brett submerged himself into the music, reaching for notes that could recapture the brightness of the afternoon. His fingers were no longer tense, focused on poise and precision but rather flowing and running across the fingerboard as Brett weaved his own music, tinted with the joy brought forth from within him. And in this way, the performance flew towards its conclusion and was met with thunderous applause from the ballroom, for an especially passionate performance.

Brett was breathing heavily – for such a short piece, he had never been this tired before. But with the sudden inspiration, in the form of Eddy, he had felt so charged that he poured everything into it, playing with so much more vivacity than he was used to. It was an entirely foreign but electrifying sensation. What was different, then? After all, it wasn’t like people had never told him how much they liked his music, so what difference did it make to hear it from Eddy?

But then again, Eddy’s sudden presence in his life had changed Brett’s everyday schedule. Instead of the silence that hung about him as he did his afternoon practices or teaching children, he was teaching a grown man, and for the unexpected purposes of sculpture.

He knew very well that he couldn’t place a finger on the exact reason why he extended his radical, impulsive proposition to teach Eddy how to play the violin. He meant what he said, that working with Eddy was a unique opportunity that would, in all likelihood, not come by again. And given how recent the invention of the violin was – only a little over a century – there wasn’t going to be many statues of violinists around, so Brett would literally be the model for many more such statues to come, in the future. Wanting for it to look the best it could, was that Brett’s only motivation to give Eddy all the assistance he could?

But Eddy was someone he’d actually found interesting, though they haven’t yet had much opportunities for anything more than small talk. But Brett knew that nothing was the same, and the way they were going, things would just keep developing and changing. The stirrings deep down in his heart, however, provided Brett with the vague, intuitive feeling that perhaps, he did so because he wanted to spend more time with Eddy.

And of course, he couldn’t blurt that out. That was embarrassing. So, he then proceeded to blurt out something else way more roundabout. The whole afternoon, he had been trying to make sense of the unfamiliar tugging insistence in his heart, forcing him to fix his eyes on Eddy, linger on his words, and flooding him with every emotion of joy possible in his presence.

That night, Brett sat down at his desk and began to write. In a dimly-lit room, of half-melted candles supporting the flickering flames, he eagerly penned the letter he would dispatch off to Eddy the next morning:

Dear Eddy,

I must emphasise that it has been a real pleasure to work with you today. Do not worry about the possible inconveniences that it may cause me. I promise that I will work with my schedule as best as I can. I -

The paper was bleeding ink from how hard he had pressed down, trying to pull out the next word from his head. Failing to do so, Brett scrapped the entire thing altogether. Why did it sound so formal and detached? He didn’t want to seem imposing. He wanted to genuinely know Eddy better.

He reached for another sheet of paper, and started scrawling at it, stringing words together that he hoped sounded warmer, friendlier.

Dear Eddy,

It has been a real pleasure to have your company today. I hope you do not worry about the -

Again, Brett stopped, realising that perhaps he shouldn’t have started so early with the reassurances. He scrunched up that piece of parchment, chucking it aside and pulling out yet another sheet to begin again. He really shouldn’t, paper didn’t just appear on trees like fruit, but at this point the financial consideration didn’t stick for long in his head. He was concentrating solely on how to write to Eddy.

Dear Eddy,

Thank you very much for the pleasure of your company today. I hope that you found it enjoyable too, despite the difficulty that learning the violin may pose. I look forward to our next meeting and to a fruitful session then too. Enclosed in a separate sheet are my engagements for the next week, and you may choose a day that is suitable for you.

Pausing, Brett skimmed over what he wrote. The last sentence sounded very professional, but the offer that Eddy was free to choose should be inviting enough, right? He then continued:

Once again, I offer you my gratitude for this unique opportunity.

Pausing again, he wondered if he should include anything more. Bite the bullet and go for it, something in him urged him, to extend the overture.

You are a brilliant artist and I would be delighted to get to know you better as a friend. With my best wishes, for your good fortune, and happiness, until next week.

Brett Ziani.

He put down the quill and looked over his letter. It wasn’t perfect, but it got the point across, didn’t it? He wished he had paid more attention to his letter-writing classes, but it was too late to be regretting that. Quickly slotting it into the envelope and sealing it, he set the letter aside lest the temptation to scrutinise and rewrite it overcame him, and went to bed.

Chapter Text

For the past 5 hours, Eddy had been hammering away at the hefty block of marble that had recently arrived in the workshop for the Di Angelo-commissioned piece. Of course, being the Di Angelos, it was the finest quality of white. To begin with, white marble was brilliant in translucence, able to take finely carved details and flawless in uniformity, but this was the purest he’d ever seen, and Eddy was taking his time with the precious material he’d been bestowed. The privileges of working for one of the most powerful families in the region just kept piling up, the longer he stayed.

After a weeks-long lull in actual hands-on work, between travelling and spending his time sketching and daydreaming about a certain man, Eddy’s body was protesting at the sudden increase in exertion of his muscles. Despite his seemingly willowy frame, Eddy did have a rather toned body from years of working with sculptures, with lean arms and defined abdominal muscles, in addition to his sturdy thighs and legs. That, however, didn’t stop him from feeling the strain gradually inching its way through the muscles. Marble was vulnerable to cracking, making his job far more challenging having to apply just the right amount of strength and delicacy, which was a difficult balance to strike.

The fact that it was a life-sized sculpture was the bane of his existence that day, Eddy decided. Five hours, and he had barely knocked off enough marble to create the rough outline of the saint’s head. He had to chisel away the redundant material into the approximate shape of the figure before he could start the delicate work, but this process of roughing out the marble was exhausting enough as it was.

It was inevitable that at some point, in the haze of tiredness and tedium, Brett’s music would drift across his mind, or the letter he had sent Eddy that arrived that morning, which he was still wondering how he should reply to.

“You are a brilliant artist and I would be delighted to get to know you better as a friend.”

Oh, there simply could not be anything forced in that response. Eddy thought the first part of the letter rather professional and rehearsed – formalities of the day, if anything – but it was the ending that was entirely detached from the punctilious way in which the previous half of the letter seemed to have been written.

A friend.

Perhaps it was just Eddy, but he never took the word lightly. He wasn’t the most sociable person growing up and had few friends. But the few that he did have, he respected and cherished greatly. 

The overture of friendship by Brett however, was different. It did not conform to the bounds of propriety that marked what should be a professional relationship between them. By exceeding them, it marked Brett’s own desire, and the first read had turned Eddy into a blushing mess at the direct but sincere words. Never mind how messily scrawled the words on the letter were – it was raw, it was real. It resonated with Eddy’s own desire, buried within him but always threatening to rear its head whenever he met Brett.

Emotions swirled round Eddy’s heart – shock at his own desires manifested so plainly and relief at the confirmation that Eddy hadn’t scared him away with his enthusiasm and irritated him with his inconvenient requests first. Then they gave way to a sudden riotous joy that set his heart alight that this wouldn’t end up in a situation where Eddy was doomed to never see Brett ever again, his visage crumbling away and his figure walking off into the setting sun, never to be seen again the minute Brett was relieved from his modelling obligations.

That was what Eddy feared – a brief intersection and eternal divergence, because it was the first time he had sincerely wished, so profoundly, to get to know someone. To be friends. Brett had opened his eyes to a new world, and he wanted to see more.

Such thoughts cycled through Eddy’s mind, and even after a long day at work and making substantial progress with the marble, he was still turning the letter over and over again in his mind. How should he respond?

Night had fallen and he was tucked into his bed, ready to extinguish the candleflame, but at that moment his gaze was suddenly diverted towards his desk, a sliver of it illuminated by the tenuous stream of warm light emanating from the fire.

The clay miniature model of the commissioned piece stood on his desk, and had been, for quite a while. And a sudden burst of inspiration struck Eddy. Could he make a small model statue for Brett? After all, there was no better way to show appreciation and reciprocate, than with what brought them together in the first place.

Eddy jumped out of the bed and scurried over to his desk, pulling out his sketchbook and scrawling the god-sent inspiration on what he hoped was an empty page. He was too excited to get it down, he didn’t even bring it closer to the only remaining source of light in his room, and squinted as he fumbled with his writing, hoping (praying) that his future (tomorrow) self would have his memory jolted sufficiently by the chicken-scratch reminder if he wasn’t able to make out his own handwriting.

Closing it with a satisfying snap, he hopped back into bed and extinguished the flame before sinking down into the comfortable, billowy mattress and was out like a light from fatigue.

“Miniature sculpture for Brett” looked more like mlmvlesklpoelorBliil the next morning, but Eddy didn’t have to doubt himself, for it surfaced in his mind almost immediately after waking up, and made its presence known the whole morning through breakfast and his workday.

A lot more revitalised after a good night’s sleep and warmed up for a long day’s work, he blazed through the chiselling and managed to produce the general shape of the statue’s torso by mid-afternoon. The mallet and chisel were increasingly heavier as the day dragged on, but Eddy never lost his focus, until he stopped at a satisfactory point.

Calling it a day, he looked at the huge pieces of marble he had accumulated over the day. Now, which one should he use for Brett’s miniature? It was risky to carve without a template and wax prototype, but Eddy had a remarkable aesthetic sense and an intuitive feel for his tools, which he considered extensions of himself after doing this work for so many years. He was fairly confident, but more importantly, it was something he had been waiting to do all day and wanted to get started on it quickly.

Thus, he set to work with no time wasted, swapping his larger tools for smaller ones, ideal for working with fine and minute details. His muscles were relaxed, and excitement coursed through him as he deftly handled the tools to even out the block of marble, with his eyes on the sketch he’d made of Brett the last time they met.

For Eddy, the days of the week passed in steady succession as such, alternating between working on the commission, the miniature, and idea generation for sketches which were rendered more accurate by his (albeit short) experience with the violin. He was doing what he loved, and chose as a profession, and he had something to look forward to. Surely, Cremona would live up to the promise that Eddy had hoped it would provide.

Brett’s days were no less cyclical and mundane, marked largely by different engagements, with performances of different pieces of the same repertoire, in different places in Cremona and in the surrounding cities. Sometimes, he only remembered the specific engagement for the most trivial details such as how good the food had been (even better, the wine), how unique the ballroom had been, or how boring the speeches had been.

The thing was, he was always playing, performing, living in his music. Be it practicing at home, or playing in front of an expectant audience, he was focused on the notes, the violin, the music, in a separate world from the rest. Music was an escape from everything else, music was a self-sufficient bubble for Brett, as he came to discover, the more he honed his craft as a musician.

This bubble of music, comfortable as it was, was lonely. Brett never felt the sting and pain of it, being so focused on the transcendence of melodies, but he found it disconcerting how this bubble was slowly losing its familiarity – whenever he played now, he always had Eddy on his mind at some point in time, preventing him from fully immersing himself in the music throughout.

His bright-eyed, glowing face as he listened to Brett surfaced when he played up-tempo pieces, his furrowed expression and the tension of his body as Brett dipped into the canzonettas, the excitement in his smile at the smooth contours in the music, all of those small things that Brett had noticed when his eyes were open and not fixated on his strings, had nestled snugly in his memory.

The music he was playing was somehow no longer for him, in his bubble as a perfect distraction, but for someone in the audience, even though that someone wasn’t there.

On a certain day at a new engagement where he played the very piece that he remembered playing at the Di Angelo’s, the day he met Eddy, that said bubble of isolation vanished completely. It was simply Brett Ziani and his music, playing in search of a memory, dredging up images of Eddy that fateful day they met. It had been a while since the letter had been dispatched, and he still hadn’t received any response.

Had he perhaps been too direct with Eddy? Did the last sentence prove fatal for their professional relationship and Eddy had hightailed it out of there, combing through the houses of Cremona to find for himself another model? Muscle memory took over, his fingers moving fluidly without hesitation, as Brett remained lost in his own thoughts.

Every note was crisp and articulate, his bow precise and his movements fluid as usual. However, what was different was that somehow, the perfection of sound that he once sought had now morphed into a yearning for something else.

The sound was yearning no longer for itself but translating Brett’s own yearning into music. His doubts, his confusion, his uncertainty, his desire to see Eddy again – no matter how incomprehensible it was to Brett, they found expression in sound, infusing it and adding a melancholic richness to it, unprecedented in his entire performance career. The pauses were more apparent, the pianissimos more heart-wrenching, the allegrettos tinged with desperation and depth despite their joviality. All of that was written and expressed instantaneously, compelling to the audience despite its reckless abandon.

For the first time in a very long time, Brett found himself exhausted at the end of a performance, panting and slightly dazed, unable to utter anything else besides a mumbled “thank you” to anyone who came up to compliment him or praise him perfunctorily. The audience might not have heard any significance in the performance, but Brett knew it had been different, and it had unlocked something in him, or rather, distilled down that turmoil into the unabashed truth that he was immensely interested in the fulfilment of a true friendship, companionship, and making art with someone so near and dear.

And the next few days went similarly, oscillating between precise, accurate performances and richly intense ones, his hopes ebbing and flowing of Eddy’s response. To the extent that he thought he should visit the Di Angelo palace, but he wasn’t ready to jeopardise Eddy’s career by presenting himself as a distraction or nuisance.

The days passed too, Brett’s being a sharp juxtaposition against Eddy’s delightful excitement.

In five days’ worth of downtime, Eddy had produced a lovely miniature, the best he’d ever done with marble of that size. Fragility of marble being one, and the complexity of detail being another, it was surprising that it was even complete in such a short time frame. But Eddy was anxious to have Brett receive this soon, and he only remembered the day before that he probably should have responded to the first half of the letter promptly.

He was too caught up in the prospect of giving Brett a pleasant surprise, however, and so he found himself in a guilty quandary, polishing up the work as fast as possible so as not to extend that discourtesy and rebuff that his impulsive behaviour must have conveyed to Brett.

There was a miniature Brett, with a violin case slung over his shoulder and a bunch of irises in his hands. While carving the violin-playing Brett was one of his artistic goals, he thought their friendship shouldn’t be based solely on their professions. So he pulled out one of the few things he knew about Brett: his favourite flowers.

It wasn’t as miniature a figure as it was supposed to be, nearly the length of his forearm, but it meant that the details he wanted to practice were more visible: his beautiful face, gently and carefully shaped, and the flowers, intricate and beautifully blooming, every petal lovingly carved to render it accurately.

The last touch was to personally deliver it to his home. The guilt had bubbled for hours on end, and he thought he’d save that letter paper anyway. He hadn’t mean to keep Brett waiting, and he only hoped he wouldn’t be too angry. Plus, he hadn’t left the estate in a while, and some sightseeing was reasonable, right?

Without thinking too much, he packed the miniature carefully, swaddled with cloths and into his knapsack, strapped tightly to his own body and left with Brett’s letter in hand, with his address visible on the back of the envelope. He was certain Brett would be at home at this hour, or at least, around the area, so hopefully, he could apologise in person.

And off he went eastward, in search of Brett. It was daytime and it was fairly busy on the streets, no matter which way he turned. Geography wasn’t Eddy’s strongest suit, but he was not too awful with directions and three requests for directions later (and multiple stops for street food, beer and staring at the unique architecture of different places) he found himself in front of a narrow strip of an alleyway, houses crammed tightly beside each other. He read the address plate in front of the one nearest to him and matched it with Brett’s address. Either it was down this strip, or he had to walk further down to the next lane. As he contemplated between walking inwards or downwards, he heard his name:

“Eddy?”

Eddy turned around faster than he thought possible, because who else in Cremona would have recognised him and called him by his name?

“Brett?”