It's cute when Louis humours him. And Lestat is ever willing to be humoured.
Or, more generously: when Louis is willing to allow Lestat to distract him from whatever thing is otherwise pulling focus. Nostalgic, even with the assist from the resident youth, and Lestat brings up a hand to set fingertips along Louis' jawline, thumb touching the little divot in his chin with great affection.
And then, a pivot, moving through them both to go and retrieve his guitar. Rosewood and spruce, tones of sunset fire spreading to black on the edges of the top board, and the coveted signature decorating a rounded corner. "It's been signed by Johnny Cash, see?" he says as he wheels around, positioning the guitar in his hands—backwards, first, before correcting himself. It's fine, he's got this. "I think he's dead now. Pity."
Dead twenty years, in fact, but who's counting.
Settled on the couch, Lestat occupies himself with the tuning of the guitar, absorbed immediately in this task. It takes no time at all to get the tuning in order, keying out of whatever else is being said, before scales turn into what is only roughly the opening riff of 'The Man Who Sold The World', the tune of which is played faster, a circling melody that turns into something else. He had never played a violin the day he woke the Mother of all of them with his melodies and like then, mimicry morphs into something strange, unnatural, and oddly pretty. A far cry from his devotion to perfection, playing Bach and Beethoven at the grand.
Vampire nails (very carefully) replacing the need for a pick, technique probably not wholly correct in the way his fingers find their way across the strings. The result is probably at least informed by A Little Speed alongside a preternatural disposition to create.
i hope he has a keytar in s3
Or, more generously: when Louis is willing to allow Lestat to distract him from whatever thing is otherwise pulling focus. Nostalgic, even with the assist from the resident youth, and Lestat brings up a hand to set fingertips along Louis' jawline, thumb touching the little divot in his chin with great affection.
And then, a pivot, moving through them both to go and retrieve his guitar. Rosewood and spruce, tones of sunset fire spreading to black on the edges of the top board, and the coveted signature decorating a rounded corner. "It's been signed by Johnny Cash, see?" he says as he wheels around, positioning the guitar in his hands—backwards, first, before correcting himself. It's fine, he's got this. "I think he's dead now. Pity."
Dead twenty years, in fact, but who's counting.
Settled on the couch, Lestat occupies himself with the tuning of the guitar, absorbed immediately in this task. It takes no time at all to get the tuning in order, keying out of whatever else is being said, before scales turn into what is only roughly the opening riff of 'The Man Who Sold The World', the tune of which is played faster, a circling melody that turns into something else. He had never played a violin the day he woke the Mother of all of them with his melodies and like then, mimicry morphs into something strange, unnatural, and oddly pretty. A far cry from his devotion to perfection, playing Bach and Beethoven at the grand.
Vampire nails (very carefully) replacing the need for a pick, technique probably not wholly correct in the way his fingers find their way across the strings. The result is probably at least informed by A Little Speed alongside a preternatural disposition to create.