There is a vaguely hypnotic quality to these nonsense melodies, fingers moving swift and sure over the fretboard as separate notes are picked out, chords discovered. Consolidating the amount of time he's spent avidly watching this past century's masters on television or, some decades later after that particular device broke down, through his tablet, his own fingers tracing these movements in the air, an eerie way of passing the time while New Orleans hummed and whirred in the background. It's fine. There was no one around to observe.
But now he has an instrument, and soon, the experimentation circles back around to something more recognisable, a simpler strummed melody that he hums along to, working his way to what Daniel will potentially recognise as a loose acoustic rendition of the song they'd just been enjoying, still in his head.
Lestat does not remember the verses, which is alright, filling in a line with something of his own, "And they're talking about me in their heads," with a smile tossed their way, "And I hope it's only nice things".
Lestat can do all the drugs he wants, Daniel can stay effectively sober even if he partakes. And Louis— well, who knows, they haven't talked about his indulgences after, though he suspects a halt. Daniel carried on with extremes well into the next decade, and still dipped back in now and again. Was still dipping once in a blue moon by the time he was diagnosed with Parkinson's, which he found a little funny. Of course he gets sick and it's not anything his drug use led to. Just shitty luck.
Behind him now. He huffs a quiet laugh at Lestat doing some reverse-heckling at their (obvious? it must be) chat right in front of his face.
'He likes being what he is.'
A thoughtful reflection. Something Daniel is contending with, as someone who was having a miserable fucking time as an aging, sick human with no friends. He's not an ideal vampire. He looks too old, he has no instincts towards shutting up and hiding. But does he like this better?
—Anyway. Alright, alright, he'll leave it. No more secret talk. For now.
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But now he has an instrument, and soon, the experimentation circles back around to something more recognisable, a simpler strummed melody that he hums along to, working his way to what Daniel will potentially recognise as a loose acoustic rendition of the song they'd just been enjoying, still in his head.
Lestat does not remember the verses, which is alright, filling in a line with something of his own, "And they're talking about me in their heads," with a smile tossed their way, "And I hope it's only nice things".
Anyway, a chorus: "Don't need nothin',"—
no subject
Lestat can do all the drugs he wants, Daniel can stay effectively sober even if he partakes. And Louis— well, who knows, they haven't talked about his indulgences after, though he suspects a halt. Daniel carried on with extremes well into the next decade, and still dipped back in now and again. Was still dipping once in a blue moon by the time he was diagnosed with Parkinson's, which he found a little funny. Of course he gets sick and it's not anything his drug use led to. Just shitty luck.
Behind him now. He huffs a quiet laugh at Lestat doing some reverse-heckling at their (obvious? it must be) chat right in front of his face.
'He likes being what he is.'
A thoughtful reflection. Something Daniel is contending with, as someone who was having a miserable fucking time as an aging, sick human with no friends. He's not an ideal vampire. He looks too old, he has no instincts towards shutting up and hiding. But does he like this better?
—Anyway. Alright, alright, he'll leave it. No more secret talk. For now.