the moment brett plops down on the empty chair across from cynthia in a streetside cafe for lunch, his mouth begins to run off without much input from his fog-filled brain.
"why the hell is eddy chen such a bastard?"
cynthia snorts, shaking her head as she waves a hand for a waiter to come over to their table. "believe me, honey, i've heard that a million times before, and my answer will always be the same: i have no idea." they both put the conversation on hold as they order their food, and then she continues with a commiserating smile. "i take it you went to try and talk him down, and then you fought?"
"yeah." brett doesn't mean to sound whiny, but his chest is still aching; his heart is still bruised. he isn't used to arguing with people he considers his friends, but it turns out eddy chen can bring out both the best and the worst in him, and isn't that a realization? he almost forgets he hadn't expounded on what he had meant for cynthia's sake, and so he continues. "we had a shouting match. things were said. i don't want to talk about it."
since he's left eddy's presence, a furious sea of annoyance has churned in his gut, forcing his mind to think. the words the other man had said—they hadn't seemed borne out of a spur-of-the-moment outburst or a mildly bad mood. eddy's words had seemed as if they had come from the deepest recesses of his brain, as if they had been ingrained in him from a long, long time ago.
brett just doesn't understand. why on earth does eddy think that way? how could he have possibly gained such a mindset?
"that's fair; you don't have to tell me what you said," cynthia murmurs, taking a dainty sip from her glass of water: the epitome of a picture-perfect listening ear. "just let out what you feel. auntie cynthia is here to listen, sweetheart."
eww. brett's eyebrows knit together in distaste. "please don't call me that. it's weird coming from you."
"okay, okay, sweetie pie, whatever you say," cynthia retorts with a teasing smirk before her expression clears, turns serious. "so just let it out, whatever you're keeping in that brain of yours. i can literally see a dark cloud raining droplets on your head, no kidding."
he can't help himself: he unceremoniously plops his arms down on the table and buries his face in them. not quite something a twenty-something man should be doing, but he doesn't think his companion would mind. "i'm just having problems understanding his point of view."
"yes, he does seem rather full of himself at times, huh?" cynthia shakes her head, smiles even as a groan escapes "he's always been like that, as far as i can remember. didn't i tell you? stone-cold. yep, that's eddy chen, alright." her eyelashes flicker, just a little. her eyes turn to him, a faint glimmer in them. "he's been thawing recently, though; not as many meltdowns as the other concerts i've heard about. must be some new influence on him, i don't know."
(it's a testament to brett's frazzled mind that cynthia's implication flies over his head completely.)
"yes, that's all good, but why is he like that?" brett runs fingers through his hair, messing up the orderly strands into bird's-nest disarray. "why does he think like that?"
cynthia hums thoughtfully. "i really have no idea either, and i think everyone else knows nothing too. he's always been so mysterious. so untouchable. unflinching." she shrugs, unable to go on. "perfect, really."
"yeah, that," brett snaps his fingers in recognition. "he kept saying perfect, like he wanted the music to be perfect, us to be perfect, himself to be perfect." he wants to think about the possible reasons why, but he's still emotionally spent. he can't think properly like this.
"maybe it's some weird tic he has? you know we musicians are really eccentric. maybe it's just that or something similar." cynthia stops, turns to brett with an eyebrow raised. "why are you so concerned about him? you're so affected over this that you're literally sweating bullets into the cushion, my god. that's so disgusting."
at that comment, he recoils backward. is he really? swiping a hand over his forehead reveals that she is in fact telling the truth, and so he attacks the stash of tissue paper on the table with gusto. "yeah, okay, i—sorry. i just," brett pauses, breath catching in his throat, hand poised to wipe the moisture off his upper lip, "i just want to help."
he does. he really does. more than anything, he just wants to be let in, wants to be considered close, wants to be—
"this would be so much easier if he would just let me help him!"
he's still fuming, smoke coming out of his ears, that he completely misses the sly grin tugging at cynthia's lips. when she chooses to speak, however—brett's world comes to a sudden, screeching stop.
"you like him, don't you?"