Eddy woke up the next morning to the sun seeping through his window and into his eyes. He checked the time, ten o'clock. Brett wouldn't be here until around two. Brett...all of last night's events came flooding back to him. He tried to shove those thoughts aside as he walked into the bathroom.

As he brushed his teeth, he wondered what kind of video they'd be recording today. It was Brett's turn to pick, so it was unlikely that the topic would cause the feeling to go crazy. The feeling, he guessed, was just the 'butterflies-in-his-stomach' effect, which he hated. Why was he feeling that way towards his best mate? It wasn't normal.

He made his way to the kitchen, and decided to prepare eggs. As he did, the thoughts he tried to shove away overtook him like a veil of darkness.

Eddy put oil into the pan. You have a crush on your best mate. He cracked two eggs into a bowl. You're disgusting, a freak! He sprinkled in salt and pepper. You annoyed Brett yesterday, by not being able to focus. Eddy put a hand to his head while adding a splash of milk. Brett probably already hates you because of that, and you haven't even admitted the fact that you have a crush on him. He whisked the mixture together, letting all of the pain and anger flow out of himself through the whisk. Some of the mixture splattered up out of the sides of the bowl, making a mess. You thought about Brett kissing you. He threw the mixture into the pan, the sizzling of the oil only fueling his fire.

"I do not have a crush on Brett!" He shouted, aloud. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and fought them back. He slammed his fist against the wall, three times, in rhythm to his words, "I don't! I don't! I can't!"

His breath caught as his phone vibrated in his back pocket. He tried to calm himself down before looking at the contact name. On the third buzz, he looked down to see that Brett was calling him. He sighed, but picked up, using the calmest voice he could, "Hey."

"Hey? That's all I get?" Brett asked playfully on the other end of the line, "Not a 'good morning', 'Nice to hear your voice', 'Can't wait to see you later', Nothing like that?" He laughed.

There was no way Eddy was going to let Brett hear it in his voice, but those words stung. he wished that he could meaningfully tell Brett that it was nice to hear his voice. Even though Brett himself said it, it would come across as odd. "Ha. Good morning, then," He tried, with as genuine of a joking tone as he could muster.

"Morning, I wanted to know if it would be okay if we filmed a bit earlier today? I've got something to do tonight that just came up, but I don't want to cancel filming," He explained, "We're running out of videos on backlog, we really need to film more."

Brett was right. There were only about four videos prepared on backlog. They had planned to get dinner, though. Was Brett cancelling that because of him? "Yeah, that'll be just fine. What time were you thinking? And, uh, are we still going to get dinner?" He asked. He wanted time to get himself under control before Brett arrived.

"I was thinking around eleven-thirty. I'm sorry about dinner, I forgot all about it. We could get an early lunch instead, though? If you haven't already eaten?" Brett suggested.

"Well, I'm in the middle of cooking eggs," He looked over at the eggs, which were starting to burn, "Which I've just burned. So yes, early lunch sounds good. See you soon." He said and hung up, without even waiting for Brett to sign off.

Eddy ran over to the stove, scraped the burnt eggs out of the pan and into the trash can, and looked at the clock. Ten-fifteen. An hour and fifteen minutes until Brett was to arrive.

He decided to practice to calm himself down. He walked up the stairs, into his practice room, and unlatched his violin case. He tightened his bow, put on the shoulder rest, and brought the violin up under his chin. He played Vivaldi's Concerto in A Minor. He poured out his emotions through the third movement, the confusion he felt resinating within the staccato notes, his anger flared up through the sixteenths, and his sadness was reflected as he played the sforzandos. The music and emotions flowed through him, causing his shifts to fall perfectly in place. His bow never faltered, and his intonation was as clear as a bell.

When he came to the Tutti at measure ninety-one, he over-did the martellato, hammering out the notes stronger than he usually did. He realized that this new sound actually paired well with this phrase of the concerto, so he let his anger at himself fuel him again at the second martellato during measure ninety-nine.

His sadness overtook him then, during the largamente at measure one hundred-four. His vibrato was excellent, maybe even better than it had ever been before. It didn't last long, though, as his frustration got the better of him at measure one hundred-nine. The notes were much more growl-y than he had ever heard them in this piece, but he didn't care, he soldiered on.

The last eight bars were his best. The accidentals didn't bring him any trouble, his slurs were perfectly timed. The variety of note values and technique within the bars helped him display all the emotions he was feeling in a short amount of time. His crescendo over measures one hundred forty-one and one hundred forty-two brought him to a strong forte. He played the last eleven notes of the piece with such intensity that it made his own heart hurt even more listening to the acoustics echo the notes back to him.

On the last note, the A, his vibrato whined and slowly faded away. He let the note ring, then slowly brought his violin down, emotionally drained. As he did, he heard a knock at the door.