Broken String

XV

"I feel so stupid." he whispers. 
"Please. Don't. It's only me." Brett whispers back. He's lying on top of his quilt, Eddy under it, with his head still on Brett's chest. He moves it now and lies on his back too, his head next to Brett's on his pillow. And it would be weird, maybe, at any other time, but God, right now he's so grateful that he isn't alone. And maybe it's the darkness of the night, or the loneliness he's felt, but suddenly he finds himself spilling everything he hasn't wanted to say for days. 
"It's a lot." he whispers. "And I feel like I suck, all the time. In my lesson. In the practice room. I'm guessing that's why subconscious is finding it necessary to express itself like... this."
Brett nods next to him, he can feel the movement even though he's not looking at him. 
"I'm sorry I... you know. Cried like that." Eddy adds. 
"Come on. How long have we been best friends?" Brett says quietly. "I don't care about that, you know that. I just don't want you going through this alone."
He's quiet for a long moment, the silence of the night washing over them both, making the room quieter, darker, safer somehow. Then he takes a deep breath. 
"Eddy... I'm sorry I said the thing about the Pag, the other day. I get the feeling I undermined you, somehow."
Now he does turn to look at him, because his heart flutters in his chest. How does Brett know that he was so childish as to let something as innocent as that comment hurt his feelings?
"Please don't feel bad, Brett." he whispers. "You were right all along, anyway. I can't play it, at least not now."
"I really didn't mean it like that."
"I know."

They're quiet for another long, long moment, two boys on a bed, one under the quilt, one on top.
"Um. You not cold?" he asks his best friend, then sees Brett's grin in the dim light. 
"Nah. Don't worry. So... what now?"
Eddy shrugs. 
"I dunno. Keep practising, I guess?"
He moves a little, just to give Brett some space, pressing his hand into the mattress.
"Ow!" he grunts.
"What's up?"
Oh God. Now he's gone and done it. He hears the concern in Brett's voice, and he knows he could blow it off, say something offhand, like he cut himself yesterday, cutting tofu.
He also knows Brett would not believe him, not when they're like this, in the dark together, the moment so intimate, the night inviting honesty.
And since when does he lie to his best friend?
"My hand hurts." he admits softly. 
"Huh? What, your bow hand?"
"No." he shakes his head. "Left hand. Has been hurting for days. I tried to not practise yesterday so it could rest some but it didn't help."
Brett throws himself further on his side and even in the dim light he can see the astonishment jumping off his fac. 
"Eddy! Are you mental? You need to get that checked out! How sore?"
Eddy shrinks a bit at the words he knows are true. 
"Um. Quite sore. And now my arm's sore, too. It happens when I move it a certain way, this shock pulls through it. And when I play, obviously."
"Jesus Christ. Please tell me you'll call the physio in the morning?"
"You really think I should?" Eddy asks. "I mean... I have so much to do."
"For fuck's sake, Eddy. Seriously. I've known guys who've not played for a year because of injury. I've seen one promising career ending because of injury. Please. Call."

Something pulls through Eddy at Brett's soft, clearly heartfelt words. 
"Okay, okay. I'll call."