[The kid's good, really good; he keeps up when Pickles begins picking up the tempo and he handles improvisation in a way that even Skwisgaar could respect. It gives Pickles the freedom to lose himself to the music, desperate enough that he'd overdose on Primus or the Pixies or fucking RHCP, if he could. It is the absolute antithesis of that endless, eternal Nothingness. He can never, ever go back.
The thing that draws him out is the wobble in his seat. The stool creaks when he shifts around, and he can't seem to get the height right for this new body of his. It isn't until he's adjusting for the third time that his fingers brush across a familiar tear in the thin fabric beneath. It's stapled shut and still sticky from the long-lost duct tape that kept peeling off --
Holy shit. Is this his drumkit? Did the motherfucker not -- did he just leave -- this is his drumkit! The same one from when Magnus tore the apartment up, the same one that Faceless Friday painstakingly wrapped in gaudy nautical paper and left him to open like a kid on Christmas! The only reason he hadn't realized it sooner is because someone scraped off the old Dethklok stencil.
Funny how quickly a realization like that can overwhelm a person. Pickles doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry.]
Fuuuuck, man, time -- time out. I, aah, needa breather. [His hands are cramping. He doesn't know when that started. Individual sensations are hard to pick out from the whole.] Damn, yer pretty good. Guess I should'a figured, since.. ya got yer own guitar.
no subject
The thing that draws him out is the wobble in his seat. The stool creaks when he shifts around, and he can't seem to get the height right for this new body of his. It isn't until he's adjusting for the third time that his fingers brush across a familiar tear in the thin fabric beneath. It's stapled shut and still sticky from the long-lost duct tape that kept peeling off --
Holy shit. Is this his drumkit? Did the motherfucker not -- did he just leave -- this is his drumkit! The same one from when Magnus tore the apartment up, the same one that Faceless Friday painstakingly wrapped in gaudy nautical paper and left him to open like a kid on Christmas! The only reason he hadn't realized it sooner is because someone scraped off the old Dethklok stencil.
Funny how quickly a realization like that can overwhelm a person. Pickles doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry.]
Fuuuuck, man, time -- time out. I, aah, needa breather. [His hands are cramping. He doesn't know when that started. Individual sensations are hard to pick out from the whole.] Damn, yer pretty good. Guess I should'a figured, since.. ya got yer own guitar.