[ Mozart lives life like a hurricane. Thirty-odd years of his life from country to country, learning languages and swapping jackets to perform for kings and nobles. Sitting still has always been as much of a challenge as writing an opera overnight; if given the choice, he'd use his own blood for ink if the latter ran out.
Despite the certainty of that truth, Mozart exercises patience here. Perched on his piano bench, almost knocking knees with an entity that might as well be a demi-god. ]
'Cannot'.
[ He repeats, sing-song. It might sound patronizing, if not for the curiosity that softens the half-grin on his face. ]
Well, that's just historically speaking. [ His fingers dance over the piano keys, drawing scales and arpeggios in the same way that people breathe. ] Now, the better question— have you ever wanted to sing?
no subject
Despite the certainty of that truth, Mozart exercises patience here. Perched on his piano bench, almost knocking knees with an entity that might as well be a demi-god. ]
'Cannot'.
[ He repeats, sing-song. It might sound patronizing, if not for the curiosity that softens the half-grin on his face. ]
Well, that's just historically speaking. [ His fingers dance over the piano keys, drawing scales and arpeggios in the same way that people breathe. ] Now, the better question— have you ever wanted to sing?