we’re friends, right? are we friends? -- from abi!
critical role / accepting !
   amélie’s sitting — legs crossed at the ankles — at abigail’s piano, next to her. one hand holds fingers around the delicate stem of a wine glass, the other letting her fingers tap at whichever keys she finds fit. amélie can’t play piano or any instrument despite the slight amount of time she put into it in school. too much of her heart was ballet and other athletics. she can read the sheet music in front of her. amélie shifts her weight and attention, both heavy as they corner abigail in their midst.
   amélie blinks, one eye blackened from where abigail’s father had punched her in last effort panic, knowing his life was ticking to a close. “  did i say something that made you think we weren’t ?  “
   she remembers the sick thud that came with bashing abigail’s father over the head with the lamp that had been situated innocently on the table next to his hotel bed. amélie remembers bringing the base of the lamp down over and over ; there’d been so much blood.
   “  of course we’re friends, abi. i rather like you.  “ there’s nothing but sincerity in her tone, it shapes her mouth into an opened mouthed grin. it’s a far send off from the face abigail’s father had seen with his last bit of clarity — that cold hard mask.
   “  besides, i don’t know anyone else who can play piano like this. do you compose your own pieces, too ?  “
