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V

"Dude! What was that???", Cole asked incredulously on their way back, regular bubble teas, half sugar less ice, in hand and straws already popped through the plastic lid.
"I don't know, man! It just kinda came over me!", Brett hissed truthfully so the others wouldn't hear. After Eddy had gotten his drink, he'd rushed out the store like he'd been stung by a wasp, the door chimes ridiculing Brett for his stupid and fruitless attempt at starting a conversation with Eddy Chen.
"Why? You were like the most unmotivated person just before morning rehearsal and now you talk to your rival who doesn't even want to look at you?"
"I don't know!!!" Brett threw his boba-free hand up in the air, making the violin case on his back jump, "I have no idea why I even tried. He's like the most unpleasant person I've ever encountered and I knew that after like the first five minutes. Please slap me next time I so much as glance at him?"
"Jeez, Brett, what have you done to Eddy?", Angelica jumped in before Cole could react to Brett's plea, her mango fresh milk dangerously splashing up and down.
"What? Nothing! I just tried talking to him", Brett explained helplessly, "Didn't you guys say he's hard to approach? Guess I was just too stupid to really believe that."
"He is. I've just never seen him this stressed out with anyone. He's normally just… cold."
"I see", Brett deadpanned while he was boiling on the inside. What? Was he so irritating that Eddy needed to show his disgust openly so people from a mile away could sense it? What was this guy's problem? And what made Brett even more furious was his own stupidity for trying so hard. Why? Why should he care? Why did Brett's dumb mouth takeover without his brain giving its permission anyway?
"It's all good though! At least now you won't have to feel bad when you win against him", Cole meant and took a loud sip from his drink. The Sydney con was just around the corner now and the afternoon rehearsal was about to start soon. 
"Don't know how my chances stand. According to Katie he's brilliant, isn't he?", Brett spat. 
"Bet you're better!", Cole exclaimed, "You're first year! They'll take that into account."
"Actually, he's too", Angelica informed and looked like she felt bad for saying it, "He got a scholarship for his studies at the Sydney con. Think he won some competition or something. One of the many local ones."
"Yeah, my chances are great", Brett grumbled. He took an aggressive sip from his bubble tea while the distance between his steps widened so he could gain some space for his sulky self.

Afternoon rehearsals consisted of tackling the Andante, the second movement of Mozart 25. The orchestra was then to continue working on the symphony while Brett and Eddy got time to practice their Korngold, which Brett deeply appreciated. For one, he didn't have to sit next to spitting-fire-eyes Eddy Chen the whole afternoon, trying to work with him while the other straight up treated him like air, and secondly, he looked forward to having some quality time alone to practice.

That was, until he wanted to face the difficult parts in the first and third movement. 
"Fuck…", he mumbled, scratched the back of his head and squeezed his tired eyes together. What the hell? The passages had worked fine at home. Sure, he'd needed time to get them fluently and musically, but he'd had them in the bag. Now, it was like the fingers of his left hand had decided to discard all the muscle memory Brett had built up during the past few months.

Okay, slow. Brett breathed in deeply, put his bow on the strings and played every note of the jumpier part about three minutes into the first movement at half speed.
Good. That seemed to work. He inhaled again, repeated the section at the same speed and upped it gradually. But when he got to the required tempo, his fingers cramped up. 

"Fuck!", Brett shouted.
No, he couldn't have that! Soon, they would have him play with the orchestra, in front of all his peers. And before he knew it, a jury would choose between him and Eddy. And he had an inkling of how good Eddy's Korngold must be. There was simply no space for fucking up a few fast parts with lots of accidentals.
Because even though it sucked to be one of the candidates, the competitive part inside him almost forced him to give his best. And when the other guy was a cold-hearted and, unfortunately for Brett, talented musician, he had no other choice to at least try. 
Brett massaged his left hand, closed his eyes and tried to think what the reason was for this disaster could be. Playing the whole morning in orchestra? Unlikely. Playing a couple of hours a day was normalcy for Brett, since he'd started at the con for sure. Was it the new surrounding? Bad acoustics in the practice room (because no matter how fancy the conservatorium, apparently, it wasn't a guarantee for well-designed practice spaces)? Brett was used to practicing wherever though, be it in a staircase or even outside because all the practice rooms were booked once again.

Brett's eyes flew open. 

Was it the other guy? Eddy Chen? Bothering him without being present?
Brett shook his head. Nah. Impossible! Hadn't he decided not to care about Eddy? Neither about him personally nor his playing? No. It had to be a glitch in his brain or something. Him short-circuiting because he wasn't used to the Sydney air yet. He just had to get his shit together, slow practice a bit and it was gonna be fine. It had to be. 

It didn't. 

By the end of his practice, Brett was so frustrated he could punch his past self in the face for ever sending in that audition tape. The clean runs he'd thought he had down for those passages had gone off to vacation too, evidently, replacing his social skills' spot at the beach or something.

"You look not fun", Cole raised an eyebrow when Brett joined him in the cafeteria after his walk of despair, hanging shoulders and eyes stubbornly cast on the passing floor included. They were going to play another run-through of Mozart's first movement after the break, but all Brett wanted to do was bury a hole next to that tree they'd had lunch under and hide himself and his violin for the next three weeks. 
"It's terrible, man!", he groaned, slumped down next to his friend and buried his head in his sore hands.
"What is?", Nathan asked, brushing his glorious brown locks back. Brett glanced at him through half opened eyes. 
"I can't play anymore."
"I'm sure you're over exaggerating", Cole stated, "but let's hear. Why do you think you can't play?"
"Because I can't! Those passages in Korngold, you know, the fast ones and stuff, the cadenza, I can't get them right!"
"Sure it's just a phase, mate", Nathan said and gave Brett a well-meant shoulder slap. Brett wasn’t sure if it helped or hurt.
Cole nodded. "I heard you play the piece once or twice. You got it down! I could never play it like you, and by heart even!"
Brett turned his head. "You should have heard me. It's terrible!"
It was doubtful, the look Cole gave Brett. "Maybe try again this evening? After a proper break?"

Yeah, maybe… but first, he had to sit through another orchestra session with Mr. Sour-face next to him. As if his day didn't suck enough.