Even Michael, who lives his entire life in earnest, is struck by how direct it feels to be sung to. It’s an exposing thing. It goes straight into him, the vibrations of the strings and Wolfgang’s vocal chords buzzing in his body until he can feel the places where his organs touch each other, the place where his ears and nose turn into his throat. He doesn’t recognize the song, but it seems to recognize him. It makes him sad. It makes him want to hide his face.
When it’s over, he’s quiet for a few moments, unsure of what to say and unsure of what he’ll sound like when he says it. His eyes are on Wolfgang’s face now, at least. He was watching them the whole time.
“That was really good,” he finally tells them, then swallows and slides a hand onto their knee, looks down at it. “You’re good at that, your voice—I like it.”