We don't want to label it

XIII

This time he beats Brett to the little restaurant they like. He orders for both of them at the counter, then glides into the same booth as yesterday with a relieved sigh. Okay, so he certainly didn't work up the balls to talk to anyone today at rehearsal, but at least the Prok is still as brilliant as ever. And now he's about to have another great lunch, and who knows, maybe Brett has good news? He crosses his legs and looks out of the window at the Brisbane traffic.

But wait. He's taking a while, yeah? Eddy digs out his phone as the waiter appears with their food. 
"Thank you, my friend will be here in a minute." he says in Mandarin, nodding to the man to put the food down and hopefully not worry that this weird guy is here alone, trying to eat two people's worth of food. The waiter nods and retreats to the kitchen. 

     Bro. You still coming? 

He types quickly, but just as his index finger hovers over the send button a dishevelled looking Brett comes into the restaurant and lets himself fall down on the chair opposite him. 
"You ordered. Great. Thanks. Sorry I'm late."
"Bro. What the hell? You okay?"
Blunt, maybe, but he knows him too well to miss that he's upset. No, actually, not upset. He looks... 
He looks fucking pissed. What the hell? But Brett says nothing, he just picks up his chopsticks and swipes up one of his dumplings. He chews and shakes his head, then chews some more. 
"Brett. Was it the guy about the tour?"
Another head shake and Brett's sober eyes find his at last. 
"Shit. Yeah. Sorry. The fucking arsehole."
"What the hell did he say?"
Brown eyes bore into him and Eddy watches as Brett reigns it in. One, two, three seconds and the warmth is back in his eyes and when he speaks his tone is back to normal. 
No one has self control like Brett does. 
"Okay. So that's a bust." he says a lot more calmly. 
"Why?"
"He said he'd organise some concerts. But that 'we don't need to be paid, right?'. He'd take all the money we make."
Eddy sits back against his seat and tries to stop his eyebrows from flying off his forehead.
"Wh... whoa. Okay, so what did you say?"
"I told him we're professional musicians with jobs that we get paid for, and we can't just go off and work but not get paid at all. We have to live, right?" Large eyes look up at him, fire somewhere barely concealed behind them, frustration floating not far away. Brett shakes his head. "So you know what he said? 'But we're in it for the passion, right?' He said my motives were off if I expected to get rich out of something like a concert tour."
Brett takes a deep breath and pinches his eyebrows between his fingers. They are both quiet for at least a full minute as Eddy tries to absorb his words and say something reasonable in return. You know, something that 's not a swear word at this guy who had the gall to make Brett upset.
"He said your motives are off." he says at last, his voice a flat monotone.
"There's a reason I called him an arsehole."
"Jesus. Your motives are off?"
"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a long while, with nothing but the occasional head shake. Eddy starts to eat his rice because look. He's here, right, and the rice is great, right? He's not going to let some arsehole ruin his lunch. Brett seems to agree with him because he picks up his spoon and takes a tentative bite of his soup, then hums his appreciation deep inside his throat. But the harsh words float around them, even though Eddy didn't even hear them first hand.
Your motives are off. 
You can't expect to get rich out of something like a concert tour.
"Okay." he says very suddenly, surprising himself a little. "Do we look for another guy?"
Brett shrugs and takes huge bites of his soup. "I dunno. I wonder if we'll just get the same response."
"Or we look what we can do ourselves?"
Because the thing is, neither of them is looking to get rich. Their motives, Eddy knows with one hundred percent certainty, are pure. They just want to bring classical music to people. So why not? They're not idiots? How hard can it be?
"I mean..." he adds. "I don't know if I'm very good at arranging things. I may be too fucking shy to call people."
"I'm not, though." Brett's spoon is hovering halfway between his mouth and his bowl. And he's thinking about it, Eddy can see that. "You really think we could?"
"I don't know. We'd need some money to start. No idea how we'd get it."
"We'd need more time, as well. We're so busy now."
Brett heaves a deep sigh and takes another bite of soup, then shakes his head. 
"Let's sit on it for a bit, yeah? Give it a think."
"Okay." Eddy acquiesces. I mean, they're here now. They should enjoy themselves. "Sure. We'll give it a think."