"Actually, it's Mozart, but I'd hardly expect you to know anything beyond whatever insipid music wails on popular radio," Myer replies mildly. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Adam loping toward him, long-legged, fluid, in command and at ease in his body. And tall. Myer tastes bitterness on the back of his tongue. He doubts he'll grow any more; he hasn't since they were sick. In all likelihood, he'll always be short. I don't need height to have presence, he thinks. It's all attitude. It isn't as if he lacks that particular quality.
"I think that were I running away from home, I'd run somewhere warm, with sun and sand and ocean. Not this dreary place." He stops to wave a hand negligently around the room.
"And as for 'emo,' don't be ridiculous. I most assuredly am not," he says.
Adam's blue-black hair is damp, and he smells fresh, like soap. Undoubtedly just come from doing something involving excessive muscular skill. He knows Adam was watching his hands on the keys, so he begins the piece again, from the beginning. All Adam needs to do to master anything physical is to see an action in its entirety. He can replicate this perfectly, every note in place, but while it would be technically perfect, Adam doesn't have the experience or skill to infuse it with passion, as he can.
"I could ask what you're doing here," Myer points out. "Though I'm assuming it's something sporty or brawny."