Broken String

XXIV

Eddy pulls the quilt over himself, full of confidence. He's had a nice evening, he really has. They played D&D, again, with Todd being dungeon master extraordinaire. He comes up with the best plots. 
And it's been almost easy to forget that he's stopping his friends from getting their own work done. 
Eddy turns on his side, winces at the sting that pulls through his left arm and closes his eyes. 
Sleep.
Sleep will fix all, you'll see. 

Is it the dark? Is it how quiet it is, in here, now that everyone else has gone to sleep? The room seems large, and so very, very empty. Eddy takes a deep breath and tries to sleep, but his heart is pounding again.
He puts the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the pulse in his left wrist and counts, just like he learned when he was studying for the med school test, years ago. 
Jesus, that's high. He picks ups his phone and opens the clock app.
Fifteen seconds of counting, 35 beats times four. His heart rate is 140.
And that's it, somehow, all the thoughts are back, he knows now, that he can't expect the guys to keep spending the evenings with him. He's the only one who can't play, who can't do what he's supposed to. Tomorrow he'll have to tell Anna that he can't do the Sarasate with her after all, that he'll be happy if he can even play the Sibelius at all. 
No. He won't tell her that last bit. Not yet. But he'll have to tell her the first. 
Where are the tears coming from? He has no idea but they're here, welling up in his eyes and streaming over his cheeks and nose into the pillow. He curls up and tries not to start bawling. 
He fails, though. His misery washes over him and he starts to sob. 
This is not something that will go away with a few days' rest. It's only gotten worse since he's seen the physio. What the hell will he do? 
What good is life, if he can't play the Sibelius he worked so hard for?
Nausea quells inside him and he breathes as deeply as he can, wills it away. It's like the room is full of ghosts. 
How will he even survive tonight? 

The creak of the door is soft, the padding of the feet even softer. And he wants to hide, wants to pull the quilt over himself and pretend to be asleep, but his body betrays him, the sobs still wracking his chest. 
"God, Eddy." Brett says gently as he sits beside him on the bed and puts his hand on Eddy's  chest. 
"B-Brett. Brett." Eddy whispers, stupidly. 
"I'm here. It's okay." Brett whispers back. 
"P-please."
He doesn't even know what he's asking please for. What does he expect Brett to do? Magic it away? Make his arm good? His stomach swims uncomfortably and he takes a breath. He can't hurl, not now, and most definitely not with Brett there. 
"Please." he breathes again. 
Brett nods in the darkness, then moves the quilt in one movement, slipping into Eddy's bed, throwing his arms around Eddy and pulling his head onto his shoulder.
"Shhh." he soothes.  
Maybe it's the move, maybe it's how warm the bed suddenly seems to be, or how the room seems to be fuller, now, less empty, less stark, but the sobs slow some and his stomach calms down. 
"Jesus." he manages between sobs. Brett's t-shirt is soft, under his cheek, and he can hear Brett's calm heart beat. It seems to slow his own heart down with it. He knows his tears are wetting the fabric and probably the skin under it. He also knows Brett won't care about that. 
"Yeah." Brett says gently. "Okay. So talk to me."