Broken String

XII

"Did I overstep?" Brett asks softly as they walk up the stairs together and head towards the room they've been given. 
"What? No, of course not. How would you have overstepped?"
"No, nothing. Let's get practising."

They walk in and Brett closes the door behind them both. There's no need to say much, they both just do their own thing and pretty much ignore the other when they practise like this. Eddy unpacks his violin and winces slightly as he tunes. 
God, his hand is sore. So sore. In fact, yesterday's rest doesn't seem to have helped at all. 
Fucking awesome. 
He takes a deep breath and starts on his scale. 

Brett is sounding great, though. God, he's really coming along. His tone has gotten so buttery, lately, so round and warm. This last year really seems to be making the difference, for him. He listens to his best friend quietly as he tries to work on his runs of up bow staccato thirds. In vain, obviously. His hand is screaming at him, by now, and in fact, his whole arm seems to be getting sore. He can't stop, though. Not with Brett here, who he knows will give him the third degree the second he does. He's practising Tchaikovsky right now, which he played last year with the con orchestra, undoubtedly for this recital he has next month. 
He'll rock it. 
Unlike he himself. He'll rock nothing at all, at this rate. He takes a breath, doubles down and tries not to remember the horrible, helpless feeling of the dream he had. He doesn't need that kind of negativity in his life. 

Actually, miraculously, it's going a little better today. As long as he ignores the stinging pain the runs are a little bit more even. A little bit more in tune. He practises the full hour they have the room for, then puts his violin down. 
"You sound good, Eddy!" Brett says as he too, puts his violin in rest position. "It's really coming along, that third movement."
"You think so?" he asks, making sure not to sound too eager. 
"Yes. And you have a few more weeks, right?"
"Yeah. Thank God."
See? He's done okay. He doesn't know why he was being such a baby about it anyway, earlier. He can practise with Brett, of course he can. He smiles at his best friend and hopes it's all good. 

It happens when he's putting his violin away. His wrist flicks in just the wrong way and he's called it out before he's been able to apply a brain to mouth filter. 
"Ow! Fuck!"
Brett's reaction is instant. 
"You good?"
He looks from Brett to the door and back in shock. His opening, his chance to tell him no, actually, I think I may have a problem, is right in front of him. He swallows and smiles. 
"Yeah, just hit my arm against the clasp." he lies feebly.
When has he ever, ever lied to Brett?
Brett nods and is quiet for a second. Then he takes a deep breath. 
"Um... Eddy... I gotta ask. Is everything okay?"
The clear concern on Brett's face almost makes Eddy break down in tears again and he has to bite his tongue so he doesn't tell him everything on the spot. But then what? Have Brett be worried about him? Or worse: have Brett's pity? No thank you. He can sort his own shit out. So he rescues what he can and gives him a firm nod.
I'm fine." he says curtly.
Too curtly, clearly, because he doesn't miss how Brett flinches slightly. How he nods, and backs away, starts putting his violin in its case, wipes it down with his cloth without another word. Shit. That wasn't fair on him. At all. And none of this has anything to do with Brett, even. But how could he tell him what's actually going on? He's told no one about his arm, because telling his friends would make it real. It would make it something he has to deal with, and he doesn't want that. He just wants his hand to behave, simply wants to practise hard as he humanly can so he can play his concert decently and win his competition.

Is that fucking well too much to ask?