It shouldn't even be possible to be this cold, Mark thought bitterly as he wiped at his running nose. Ascending the staircase to the loft was a bitch on its own, nevermind in this weather. His brows furrowed as he approached the door; Roger wasn't one to whistle (unless he was teasing Mark), yet that's what it sounded like was coming from inside. Tucking his camera to his side, Mark slowly slid the door open to reveal--not Roger? It couldn't be, unless he'd dyed his hair while Mark was gone.
— This wasn’t even all that hard of a run, yet he couldn’t seem to grasp it. The mistakes wouldn’t pass a listening ear; only someone who knew the flute and piccolo score—and knew them well, for that matter—would even have an inkling. But that was just what pissed the flutist off; they’d say oh, no! that was wonderful! and don’t be so hard on yourself! And that wasn’t an option, of course; he was principal flute.
Snarling quietly, he cursed the damn sheet music for giving him a migraine, and then with a huff, he decided to put the flute down and take a ten minute break. Come back when his mind was clearer.
He turned around crisply on his heels, blue and white scarf flutter- ing a bit with the smooth motion. Cold blue eyes spotted a young man dressed in identical clothing to his casual wear.
”Oh, my,” he had finally found this universes’ version of himself. A sweet smile pulled across his lips, but it didn’t meet his eyes. He looked like that asshole’s type of person. ”What a surprise. Hello.”
