distraction: you

chapter six

brett feels something in him die a little at the sound of the music the tall violinist coaxes from his instrument. but like, in a good way, because what the hell, eddy chen has been holding out on him big time.

"i had no idea he could play that well," he murmurs to cynthia, who ironically enough is lost in the tune eddy has so masterfully brought out into the hall, ringing with intensity: a prodigy laid bare for the world to admire.

with his interpretation, you'd think he was on par with hahn or vengerov. who on earth even is eddy chen?

the final note of the sonata echoes against the walls, and good lord, the judges hadn't even bothered to stop him from playing everything. brett feels something gurgling in his stomach, a hungry beast of sorts, and isn't sure whether it is envy or—something else.

right as he attempts to sort out the murky feelings rampaging around his chest like a herd of elephants, a feminine voice clearly says, "brett yang? you're next, please come over."

oh god. he's expected to play after that?

from where he stands by the doorway to the audition room, eddy's gaze alightens with recognition, and when they begin to search the hall for him, brett immediately wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

great. just great.

"i think you'll do amazing," cynthia offers, giving him a thumbs up, and yes, okay, he can do this without passing out, at the very least. brett stands up from his seat and shuffles forward, dodging pitying looks in his direction as he lowers his head and focuses on breathing properly.

one, two, three, four, one, two—

a gentle hand on his shoulder stops him, and when brett looks up, lo and behold: it's his once-savior. "you'll do great, man," is what eddy tells him, a glimmer of apology in his eyes, and against all logic and reason, the anxious knot in his chest untightens, settles down into calm determination.

"yeah. thanks," brett replies, offering a slight smile in return. he hasn't forgotten how the other man had abandoned him in the area of text messages, but he isn't unreasonable either. "you did pretty great too." and with that, brett moves into the audition room, fumbling with his violin case and hurriedly placing his sheet music onto the music stand.

fugue from the bach sonata 1 in g minor. this should work. brett takes one last measure of breath, and then falls into the welcoming arms of his music.

• • •

whenever brett plays, his mind blanks out, narrows down to the notes etched across his brain and the muscle memory of pieces he's heard and loved and performed. it is better this way; he does not have to think of his anxiety, or his low economic station, or the perpetual loneliness that lingers in him like a ghost clinging to that last taste of life.

he simply is. one with the music, one with the soul of him. his music saves him, and with that, brett finishes the movement with a flourish he would have never had the guts to do had he been anywhere else.

the slow trickle of embarrassment pooling in his gut is familiar. the sound of applause, however—that's pretty new.