[ Rinne glances out of curiosity—he can't help it—only to whip his head back at lightning speed in the Takasugi's direction. Down goes the man's arm, and quickly, too. As much as he loves a gamble, Rinne doesn't want to risk getting caught!
Caught doing what? Well, he's shy. He's supposed to be the one making vulgar remarks around here. Is this what he puts everyone through? ]
Don't point at 'em, you—! Anyone ever teach ya how to mind your own business? You're giving the 27 Club a bad name. Jeez... No matter where I go, these city people get so shameless.
[ And Rinne can't explain why, but when his eyes trace the glistening sweat as it rolls down their flushed skin, when the wind presses their clothes into tight silhouettes against the sunlight, he begins to imagine the pulse beneath their flesh. How his teeth could sink into it.
His jaw tightens. ]
Sit. [ Like Takasugi's an unruly subordinate. Rinne does the same on one of the benches. ] Hell yeah I do whatever I want. Are we here to jam or what?
[ He cracks his case open. Inside, resting in worn velvet, is an old guitar scuffed at the edges, fretboard smoothed by calloused fingers. It reminds him of the one he played on street corners when rent was due — when the music was all that wouldn't fail him. ]
no subject
Caught doing what? Well, he's shy. He's supposed to be the one making vulgar remarks around here. Is this what he puts everyone through? ]
Don't point at 'em, you—! Anyone ever teach ya how to mind your own business? You're giving the 27 Club a bad name. Jeez... No matter where I go, these city people get so shameless.
[ And Rinne can't explain why, but when his eyes trace the glistening sweat as it rolls down their flushed skin, when the wind presses their clothes into tight silhouettes against the sunlight, he begins to imagine the pulse beneath their flesh. How his teeth could sink into it.
His jaw tightens. ]
Sit. [ Like Takasugi's an unruly subordinate. Rinne does the same on one of the benches. ] Hell yeah I do whatever I want. Are we here to jam or what?
[ He cracks his case open. Inside, resting in worn velvet, is an old guitar scuffed at the edges, fretboard smoothed by calloused fingers. It reminds him of the one he played on street corners when rent was due — when the music was all that wouldn't fail him. ]