[ Truthfully, Daniel isn't really that big into music. He likes it enough, knows what's hip and what's not via open mics at late night cafes and coworker osmosis. He gets the appeal, certainly: counter culture's driving force is often music, and he wouldn't have an ongoing serial in the Berkeley Barb if he didn't care about that sort of shit, but it's never something at the forefront of his mind. Not like writing.
It's mostly an excuse to talk to Armand one on one if he's being honest--which he tries to be. He's got a tiny bit of scratch to buy a few things now that he's not paying for his drugs at the moment, courtesy of one of the strangely fascinating undead creature he'd been interviewing for a few days. Louis is intriguing in a beautifully haunting way, elegant in his easy sadness, but it's the other vampire that he can't get a good read on. It's something that leaves a strange sensation in his stomach, like too much rice at a Chinese buffet. A gut feeling he can't quite put a finger on. Danger, yes--he's not stupid, just ambitious enough not to give a shit what happens to him--but there's something else there, something that's driving him up the wall. He wants Armand's truth.
'An album of the stones' is the perfect way to do it. Maybe it won't be an official interview--maybe he can work up to that--but it's a start. Daniel'll take a start over a dead end any day of the week.]
Hey.
[ It only feels a little weird, sliding into the place in Divisadero like he's a regular guest when he hasn't really been there for long at all. There's no such thing as normalcy in terms of what he's doing, especially not with who he's interviewing, but the simple act of arriving at someone's place with a few second hand records and a cheap six pack is somewhat grounding. ]
It's not normal to push through fog like this, but it's come to the point where Daniel finds it more numbing than anything else, taxing only the metaphysical sense. The fog is background noise to him now, cold and unwelcoming in its embrace and seeping through everything, even the buildings that he's managed to enter.
He's left the Blue Creek Apartments, flashlight on in his breast pocket and radio tucked into his jeans, thankful he's hearing nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. It's lonely trudging through and trying to figure out what to do but Daniel would take the pitter patter of his own shoes over the static that tells him those things have reared their ugly heads. Daniel isn't by any means a survival guy--he's a fucking journalist, cruising San Fransicsco for his next interview or his next score--but he's smart enough to skirt past the mannequins and strange melted figures by turning his radio and flashlight off and moving a little quieter. So far, he's been good.
That's not to say he also hasn't fought. Badly, but he's managed to fend a few off--he's got an iron pipe he's torn from a rusted portion of a dirty restaurant kitchen that seems to serve him well. He's halfway down Munson street and trying to make his way to Rosewater Park when he hears it. It's hard for anyone not to, the blasting of a jukebox, the too-loud, grooving tones T Rex. Daniel jumps out of his skin and swears loudly before he immediately starts heading towards it.
The town's fucked with him for a while--he never knows the time of day, doesn't even know how long he's been here, wandering and solving puzzles and going out of his mind. When he rounds the corner he sees a figure in the little bar with the music playing, sound echoing off of the empty town walls. The sight is murky thanks to the fog, but there's definitely someone there. His heart leaps.
Daniel immediately crosses the street and tries to open the door, but it's locked. He settles for pounding on the wide glass window, hoping that either the figure will shut the music off or he can smack the door loud enough to get his attention above Marc Bolan's crooning lyrics. Had the figure turned the jukebox on? Was it just the town messing with them? Was it this place pulling Daniel to the stranger with one of his favourite songs?
There's the undercurrent of fear rising in him, too. Noises mean monsters.
Louis is asleep. Louis always needs more sleep, and that's even more true now that he's healing. He is healing. The memory of stepping out of the sun is still there - if it wasn't there would be more questions, but Armand has been able to soften the edges of it. He can ease his pain.
Armand's softened the memories of their argument, too. Louis says words he doesn't mean when he's upset (and even worse with the drugs in his system), and he doesn't have to live with them. Louis had made his choice. He'd picked Armand, and that's enough. Armand doesn't need anything more.
The proof of that choice is... questionable. But Armand accepts it. The fascinating young 'reporter' who's predictable vices are older than Armand, and who's career isn't one he'd chose to watch. If he manages to have a career. It will take time to see the winner of that wager. A wager on how long the boy could manage to stay sober would pay off far more quickly, but Armand doesn't want to deal with the mess of an immediate spiral of self-destruction. Not while they're still in San Fransisco.
So, Louis sleeps and Armand puts on the picture of the painfully mundane and goes looking.
"Daniel Molloy?" He makes sure to catch him outside. In the light of the day, it's easier to smooth away potential associations.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caravaggios;
[ Truthfully, Daniel isn't really that big into music. He likes it enough, knows what's hip and what's not via open mics at late night cafes and coworker osmosis. He gets the appeal, certainly: counter culture's driving force is often music, and he wouldn't have an ongoing serial in the Berkeley Barb if he didn't care about that sort of shit, but it's never something at the forefront of his mind. Not like writing.
It's mostly an excuse to talk to Armand one on one if he's being honest--which he tries to be. He's got a tiny bit of scratch to buy a few things now that he's not paying for his drugs at the moment, courtesy of one of the strangely fascinating undead creature he'd been interviewing for a few days. Louis is intriguing in a beautifully haunting way, elegant in his easy sadness, but it's the other vampire that he can't get a good read on. It's something that leaves a strange sensation in his stomach, like too much rice at a Chinese buffet. A gut feeling he can't quite put a finger on. Danger, yes--he's not stupid, just ambitious enough not to give a shit what happens to him--but there's something else there, something that's driving him up the wall. He wants Armand's truth.
'An album of the stones' is the perfect way to do it. Maybe it won't be an official interview--maybe he can work up to that--but it's a start. Daniel'll take a start over a dead end any day of the week.]
Hey.
[ It only feels a little weird, sliding into the place in Divisadero like he's a regular guest when he hasn't really been there for long at all. There's no such thing as normalcy in terms of what he's doing, especially not with who he's interviewing, but the simple act of arriving at someone's place with a few second hand records and a cheap six pack is somewhat grounding. ]
Grabbed some Dylan, too. Real far out stuff.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
empathicfault; silent hill au
He's left the Blue Creek Apartments, flashlight on in his breast pocket and radio tucked into his jeans, thankful he's hearing nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. It's lonely trudging through and trying to figure out what to do but Daniel would take the pitter patter of his own shoes over the static that tells him those things have reared their ugly heads. Daniel isn't by any means a survival guy--he's a fucking journalist, cruising San Fransicsco for his next interview or his next score--but he's smart enough to skirt past the mannequins and strange melted figures by turning his radio and flashlight off and moving a little quieter. So far, he's been good.
That's not to say he also hasn't fought. Badly, but he's managed to fend a few off--he's got an iron pipe he's torn from a rusted portion of a dirty restaurant kitchen that seems to serve him well. He's halfway down Munson street and trying to make his way to Rosewater Park when he hears it. It's hard for anyone not to, the blasting of a jukebox, the too-loud, grooving tones T Rex. Daniel jumps out of his skin and swears loudly before he immediately starts heading towards it.
The town's fucked with him for a while--he never knows the time of day, doesn't even know how long he's been here, wandering and solving puzzles and going out of his mind. When he rounds the corner he sees a figure in the little bar with the music playing, sound echoing off of the empty town walls. The sight is murky thanks to the fog, but there's definitely someone there. His heart leaps.
Daniel immediately crosses the street and tries to open the door, but it's locked. He settles for pounding on the wide glass window, hoping that either the figure will shut the music off or he can smack the door loud enough to get his attention above Marc Bolan's crooning lyrics. Had the figure turned the jukebox on? Was it just the town messing with them? Was it this place pulling Daniel to the stranger with one of his favourite songs?
There's the undercurrent of fear rising in him, too. Noises mean monsters.
(no subject)
no subject
Armand's softened the memories of their argument, too. Louis says words he doesn't mean when he's upset (and even worse with the drugs in his system), and he doesn't have to live with them. Louis had made his choice. He'd picked Armand, and that's enough. Armand doesn't need anything more.
The proof of that choice is... questionable. But Armand accepts it. The fascinating young 'reporter' who's predictable vices are older than Armand, and who's career isn't one he'd chose to watch. If he manages to have a career. It will take time to see the winner of that wager. A wager on how long the boy could manage to stay sober would pay off far more quickly, but Armand doesn't want to deal with the mess of an immediate spiral of self-destruction. Not while they're still in San Fransisco.
So, Louis sleeps and Armand puts on the picture of the painfully mundane and goes looking.
"Daniel Molloy?" He makes sure to catch him outside. In the light of the day, it's easier to smooth away potential associations.