𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗦 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗟𝗪𝗔𝗬𝗦 𝗠𝗔𝗗𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡. very rarely do they have the chance to do other, humaner activities; even rarer does he remember this at the forefront of his mind. empty shot glasses sit at the round table with his spine relaxed against the mold of couch cushions. the sigh that releases sinks him further in, a buzz sits at the back of his mind that still clings onto some conscious string of thought ( he still considers himself coherent, just socially loosened up ).
in raiden's preoccupied hands is one of the various backup guitars ▬ this one was practically plucked off the wall and currently sitting pretty in his lap. now, he would never consider himself instrumentally driven, but one single off-handed comment on how he always wanted to try has made some room for opportunity ( there have been occasions where he learned and observed by himself, though never in practice with someone else ). if he were truly sober, he would have quickly turned any offer down with chagrined embarrassment.
@rockerb0y: ❝ not bad, but only half-good. ❞
“ is that your way of giving out a compliment? ” phantom strings pull at one corner of his mouth, an actual sincerity which is followed by a brief scoff of half-disbelief. fifteen minutes of tuning and re-familiarizing with the fretboard ▬ for once, he could tell johnny was actually trying to give pointers. in between the shadowing as a body double, it's clear with the parties that the musician also knew how to cater a good time ( it also never really hurt to keep at their rapport ). “ never thought i'd be taking personal lessons from johnny fucking silverhand- ” the smallest, inconsequential laugh which scratches towards the back of his throat, “ first lesson's free, i hope. ”
