( Peter's straightening up a bit as he listens. There's always something about watching somebody play live that just — makes a shudder ripple down his spine. And the way Fiddleford plays is clearly skilled; it's easy to fall into.
There's a melancholy to it for sure, and he's watching, drawn in by the way the instrument sounds, the way it pushes forwards, urgent. As the other melody winds in, fits into the slots in a way that works but adds something new, something more, Peter's mouth is parted just a little, eyes not moving from where he's staring. He's stopped taking long puffs of his smoke too, holding his joint down in his lap for a moment.
It's nice. It's really nice — and it's upset, the words, the stories behind them. Even he can understand what they're saying, and even if there's no particular nostalgia for him associated with it, the banjo itself makes everything feel nostalgic. Like old woods and dusty-covered things, and stories told through song. They don't have to be his stories to make him feel something.
He's swallowing for a moment, eyes only dropping back down to his lap when Fiddleford's finished. )
It's nice. That was— nice. You're really good. ( He means it, pausing a moment before he actually moves off of the floor (a feat, to be sure...) to find his own acoustic guitar and nab a pick (WEAKLING ALERT), sitting back down gingerly with the thing in his lap. )
Could you play some of it again — slower? I can uh, try to warm up. ( By imitating the melody, even if it's just by ear and inevitably won't be.... perfect, by any means. )
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There's a melancholy to it for sure, and he's watching, drawn in by the way the instrument sounds, the way it pushes forwards, urgent. As the other melody winds in, fits into the slots in a way that works but adds something new, something more, Peter's mouth is parted just a little, eyes not moving from where he's staring. He's stopped taking long puffs of his smoke too, holding his joint down in his lap for a moment.
It's nice. It's really nice — and it's upset, the words, the stories behind them. Even he can understand what they're saying, and even if there's no particular nostalgia for him associated with it, the banjo itself makes everything feel nostalgic. Like old woods and dusty-covered things, and stories told through song. They don't have to be his stories to make him feel something.
He's swallowing for a moment, eyes only dropping back down to his lap when Fiddleford's finished. )
It's nice. That was— nice. You're really good. ( He means it, pausing a moment before he actually moves off of the floor (a feat, to be sure...) to find his own acoustic guitar and nab a pick (WEAKLING ALERT), sitting back down gingerly with the thing in his lap. )
Could you play some of it again — slower? I can uh, try to warm up. ( By imitating the melody, even if it's just by ear and inevitably won't be.... perfect, by any means. )