We don't want to label it

VIII

Eddy hooks his thumbs in the shoulder straps of his violin case and walks briskly up the familiar stairs. He's sort of gotten used to this imposing white building that looks like a toddler made it out of legos by now. He both loves and hates it here. 
Why does he have to be so shy? Or more to the point, why is no one here willing to look past the shy and see the Eddy behind? He keeps the hope off his face like a pro as he smiles at a co worker who enters through the other door. She's second oboe, he thinks, an older lady, at least fifty. She gives him a tight smile and disappears into the hallway that leads to the practice cubicles. He takes a deep breath and carries on.
Who cares what the second oboe thinks, anyway? And she's been here for a hundred years, obviously, part of the furniture. 
He wonders if they dust these people off when they do the seats. 
Look. He is able to be himself with his friends very well. He was able to be himself, pretty much, at the con. Surely then he can do it here as well? Maybe? One day? He jogs up another flight of stairs and catches a glance of himself in the window of the door he pushes open. Gawky. Asian. Skinny. He shakes his head and makes his way onto the stage area to his chair in the back of the second violin section. He's been here for a year, though, not for a hundred. Which is different.  

Of course half an hour later he remembers exactly why he loves it here. The orchestra is just. So. Good. He loves being part of this. Oh, and he loves Prokofiev of course, which the conductor is explaining way too much about right now. Pompous. Modern. Russian. Both the conductor and the music. But once they finally start up again Eddy leans into the huge chords and for a moment all of it vanishes and there's nothing left but him, the orchestra and the Russian. He even manages to swap a smile with his deskie and you know what? If it would only be this, only making beautiful music, well, life would be pretty much perfect. It's lunch before he knows it. 

Now, lunch is a whole other thing. He's been too shy to ask any of his colleagues if they want to eat with him or if he can sit with them, and nobody has offered. To be honest, with how it seems to work around here he's really not sure at all any of them would say yes, even if he did work up the courage to ask. So usually he goes outside and he sits on the concrete stairs by himself and soaks up a bit of sunlight. 
It's not so bad, really. He just listens to some music on his headphones, or looks through the score for the next rehearsal in case he hasn't practised. 
Which, let face it, is pretty much every time. So he sits on those cool stairs, reads his scores and eats a bread roll or some left over rice Tory has packed him, while wondering if he is ever going to grab together the balls needed to actually talk to someone.
But today he doesn't have to! No, today he gets to sit and eat warm rice with Brett at the Chinese place down the street they both love. He hooks his hands through the loops at the bottom of the straps of his violin case and half jogs down the street.