Broken String

I

Eddy hauls himself down the street, fumbling in his pocket to get his key out. God, he's tired, but at least he's almost home. Finally. 
"Fuck it. Where's the fucking key?" he grumbles, digging deeper now, grabbing in all of his pockets, accelerando con abbandono.
Nothing.
He sets down his bag so he can search with two hands, then picks the bag back up and turns it upside down, hoping that maybe the key got caught between scores.  
"Fuck this!" he cusses again, but just as he's deciding to give up and ring the bell, hoping someone opens it, he finds it on his last dig.  
In the wrong effing pocket. When the hell did he put it in his back pocket? 
He shakes his head and opens the door quickly, then drags himself up the four flights of stairs to his apartment. 
God, he hopes everyone is out, or has gone to bed. It's way too late, way past ten, he's practised more than eight hours today and rehearsed as well. Tomorrow he has his violin lesson. 
How's he even going to play? His hand has been hurting since yesterday.
He has no time to rest it, though. There's too much to do, because he's not got long until he needs to know the Sibelius. 
Needs to know it well. 

He opens the door to the apartment he shares with his best friends in the world and puts his violin case down by the side, drops the bag of scores next to it. Brett looks up at him from the couch, a Wii remote in his hands. 
"Hey! God, you're only just coming from the con now?"
"Yeah." he admits. "I could hold the practice room so I figured I'd simply carry on. I just... I've got to get it right, you know? I'm playing Pag in my lesson tomorrow."
Brett shakes his head like he's just told him he's certifiably mad.
"Wow, you sure? Pag four? Already?"
Eddy shrugs. 
"Gotta show it to her at some point, right?"
"Yeah, but like... you could play sixteen? Or twenty?"
Eddy almost grins but stops himself in time. Nah. He's not about to pick one of the easier ones, is he? Everyone on the competition committee would know he can't really hack Paganini so is choosing smart. 
No, it has to be four. 
It's a lovely piece, anyway. He can show some musicality in it. 
"I'll get it there." he says as definitively as he can, then turns around to grab a beer from the fridge. 
Or two. It'll help him relax, will help him get to sleep. 
"Where are Todd and Ian?" he asks as he opens a couple of bottles and hands one to Brett. 
"They've gone to eat at Todd's mum's, I think. They were gone by the time I got in."
Eddy nods and plops down on the couch next to his best friend, reaches for the other remote that's lodged under the arm rest. He yawns and leans back into the soft cushions of their crappy old couch. 
You know what? Now that Brett is here, he finds he's happy he is. A friendly voice after a crap day can never be a bad thing, right? 
"So, what are we playing?" he asks. "You prepared to take a beating?"
"Excuse me?" Brett drawls, shooting his voice into falsetto the way only he knows how. "Who's the one taking a beating here?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's big talk for a guy who lost 4-1 yesterday."
"Alright, alright, fuck you, Eddy, just play the fucking game, yeah?"

Brett shakes his head with a grin and starts the console up again. 
Okay. So he'll just play a few games with Brett, get relaxed, and sleepy, and then he'll sleep. See? Simple. He's got this. 
He presses the up arrow and winces at the sting that pulls through his hand. He doesn't say anything, though. He really doesn't need Brett's commentary about how much he's practised right now. He just needs a decent night's sleep and he'll be good as gold tomorrow.