“Composing?” Hunter asked, looking dutifully impressed. He’d never been able to do that himself, finding it far easier to play what someone else had written than writing it out himself. His only consolation was that he in turn taught others how to play themselves. Dietre had a bit of an unsteadying effect, or rather unnerving if Hunter put a real word to it. Highly defined features and pouty lips made the boy attractive to the teacher, but he also felt all the more put off by it. How hadn’t he met this musical before? The island wasn’t exactly a rambling city with more people than anyone could hope to meet. Perhaps he was new- or just very shy.
“I think it’s nice too,” Hunter said, a lopsided smile forming on his already boyish face that seemed much softer when compared to Dietre. Hunter came off as the perfectly American boy who could have been plucked out of the fifties the same way he could have been plucked out of that very moment. And he knew his manners- he knew to be polite and introduce himself, even if his shy nature wanted to just end the conversation on a rather blunt note.
“I’m Hunter,” he offered, his hand put out to shake the other’s as he kept his eyes trained on the pianist’s face in a sort of odd fascination. It wasn’t a sexual fascination (even if Hunter couldn’t help but notice there was an underlying tinge of it), but rather the same sort of fascination one felt when looking at an exotic butterfly with a unique wing pattern.