He laughs, a hand raised to carefully pet at his chin in consideration as his gaze skirts up and to the sky overhead, as though it might have the answers to this, might be able to tell him just how decent of a singer he is. It's not a skill he's practiced, nor one that he's really tried for at all. Zhuge finds that there is often too much that can be read in a voice, whether in spoken word or sung, and in a way that isn't completely reflected in the pluck or pull of a string. Voice is something over which a person has nearly complete agency, and the last thing that Zhuge would want to have happen is to let his intentions slip with song.

He remembers being invited to play at Zhou Yu's, remembers all that he heard in the other man's playing. To sing would only magnify that effect several times over. "Next time, I will sing for you," he offers with a tilt of his head. "But Cassie needs to promise: no laugh."