Broken String

CII

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
Brett is standing by the door, shoes on, violin on his back, the other guys surely already halfway down the four flights of stairs by now. 
"Yes. Lily will be here in half an hour." he says much more bravely than he feels. Okay, so he's not told him how much him leaving scares him. He's not told him he wasn't expecting this extra rehearsal, that he had thought it would be the four of them all day.
It's selfish, you see, to think like that. It's bad enough that he needs a babysitter anyway. He can't stop Brett, he simply can't.
"I have tea, I'm not hungry, I'm fine. Thanks though, Brett."
Brett's eyes tense, he can see them, he can see there are words he's not saying. Is he as awkward? Does he... 
Does he regret it? 
Eddy can feel the panic already, down inside, only exacerbated by how they've been this morning. Sweet, but awkward. 
Fuck, it's been awkward. He's had no idea what to even say to him after they did... that last night. 
"I'm fine, Bretty. Get out of here." he smiles. 
Brett nods, seems to think again, seems to take a half step over to him, then nods again and turns around. His footsteps fade quickly down the stairs and Eddy leans back on the couch. He can't tell him, of course, how much he wanted him to take that step forward, to come and hug him, envelop him for just a moment, just long enough for some of the butterflies that have been floating in and out of him since yesterday to provide a shield against the panic and the bone crushing loneliness that makes no sense at all but he can already feel invading his system, driving out any last butterfly that may have been hanging on. 
Brett's gone now, his footsteps faded away, but Eddy needs to hang on long enough for his friends to really be gone, he needs to keep it together in case any of them have forgotten something and rush back to find him in a heap on the couch he can't get off of, hyperventilating like a four year old. It's hard though, so hard because the fist has come back out of orbit and he can almost see it, lurking in the corner, waiting for its chance. And look, he could call John. But what then? Hyperventilate to him instead? What's he going to tell him? Does he really need to make even more of a spectacle of himself?
"No." he whispers to nothing in particular. "I'm okay. I'm okay. It's just half an hour."
His breaths are speeding up, though. 
"No. Lily can't see me like that." he tells the coffee table in front of him. "Edlyn definitely can't see me like that. No."
In, out. Come on. He can do this. Andante, not presto. He's okay.
He's okay.
The buzz of his phone startles him out of his focused breathing and he grabs for it. 

Tell me if you need me, yeah? Please. And... I'd like to take you somewhere, after. Is that okay?

It's instantly easier to breathe. It's Brett, of course, he cares even when he's gone. Several butterflies fly back in through the window and land on his arms, enter his heart, drive out some of the stupid loneliness. Brett wants to take him somewhere? Hasn't he taken him a million places? Why is he announcing this one? Why is he not saying where?

Of course. And of course. Can I know where?

He sends the message quickly and waits. Not for long, though.

No ;-)

No. No? Wait, what does this mean? He sits and stares at the message, reading it over and over again. He won't press, of course, plus Brett will almost be at the con now. No messages for a while, so he'll simply sit here, stare at the ones he's got and calmly breathe for the next twenty five minutes, until Lily is here. 

The fist is not gone, not back in orbit, no, he feels it lurking but somehow he manages not to fall into another panic attack. He grabs his phone after a minute and puts on Hilary, playing Bach sonata number one like the goddess that she is, tries to be transported into the chords of the Adagio the way he used to be when he practised this. His fingers itch to play it, he can almost feel the firmness of the fingerboard under them, he can feel the patterns his digits are so used to, he can hear where she shifts in a slightly different place than he does.
He should try her way, once he can play again. It'll undoubtedly be better. 

She is playing the presto when there's a decisive knock at the door.
"Lils! Come in!" he calls.
He's made it.
He's made it.