Too bad, he thinks. What good are his fingers when his mind's been emptied of music, when he can't drag out more than a few notes out of that piano, trying to play the same old melody over and over again, but always failing? He also thinks that Q shouldn't be the quick, temporary fix he is and that they can't keep doing this. And that he shouldn't have to rush out to him at the first sign of trouble, just because they're connected through means half of the people here can't even grasp.
Doesn't seem fair.
"It's not that bad, really-" Robert blurts out when he sees the sleeve cut, no doubt to make a make-shift bandage.