distraction: you

chapter twelve

things have been going well, until they suddenly don't.

brett should've known, really. of course there's a reason eddy chen is known for being a stone-cold, stuck-up drama queen; it had only been a matter of time before his temper explodes on everything and everyone around him.

"no, no, no," the soloist grumbles, stops playing—and consequently stops the entire orchestra with that—for what must have been the fiftieth time for this particular passage, and it's quite apparent that the musicians looming behind brett's back are exasperated as hell. he supposes the situation is at a code red with the way cynthia's chewing on her sparkly nails in the cello section and the way the conductor's looking red-faced and exhausted, but no one has had the boldness to stand up to eddy yet.

a few moments pass, and it turns out there's someone who does. thank god brett doesn't have to do it himself; he had been this close to yelling at eddy for the sake of everyone affected, but he really hadn't wanted to do it. "the hell's the matter now, chen?" martin runs a hand through his hair, looking as if tempted to pull out some strands. "why are you stopping?"

"the problem, thomson," eddy retorts, voice coming out way more snooty than he probably intended it to, in brett's opinion at least, "is that you're messing everything up from measure 78 onwards, and it's screwing with my head."

the oboist's affronted gasp is loud enough to be heard from the concertmaster's seat. "excuse me?"  

brett sinks lower in his chair, trying to hide his face behind the music stand as the argument unravels across the stage, harsh statements bouncing off the edges of the room, the noise escalating until—

"that's it," the conductor snaps, stomping his foot down to punctuate his point, and good lord, brett can't quite hold back the cringe that makes its way over his expression at that. the man orders eddy off the stage, which he promptly vacates with a frustrated huff. even as the conductor then advises the orchestra to disperse for an early lunch break, brett's eyes are glued to his friend's retreating figure, unconsciously taking note of the door he leaves through.

"god, what a bastard," he hears martin groan as the man takes his place next to cynthia among the seats they've congregated around in the hall. "he's a great soloist and all, but damn, he's such a pain to work with sometimes."

"he's always been like that," quips the red-haired lady beside brett, shaking her head as she packs her flute away. "you know why they never try and yank him outta our concerts? i hear his family's got clout in the industry and they aren't afraid of using it to enforce his position in the—" 

brett clears his throat, smiling calmly even as his eyes gleam dangerously behind his glasses. "that sort of talk isn't very nice," he reminds the woman. calmly.

"i think he just had a really bad day," cynthia chimes in, subtly fixing the uneven nails she'd chewed on earlier. "won't you check up on him, brett? you're close; maybe you can talk him 'round to get himself sorted out."

at that suggestion, brett feels a bit like a sacrificial lamb. they're friends, there's no denying that, but he isn't very sure of where he stands where eddy chen is concerned. how can they be sure his opinion or his presence is worth anything to a man lost in his own ash cloud of volcanic temper?

when brett does not immediately answer, cynthia grins and taps his shoulder three times with a finger that boasts a particularly glittery pink butterfly. "for good luck," she explains. "he won't get mad at you. probably."

"that probably's not very reassuring," says brett, but he does go to search for his friend. (he would have gone and searched for eddy no matter what they would have said, anyway. it's nice to have an excuse to think it would have only been for that reason and nothing else.)