Re: log: dietre a. & daniel w.
Daniel simply smiled at this theory, as he doubted a large number of beautiful women crossed Dietre's path, but it was an insightful comment nevertheless. "I never argue with beautiful women, dear fellow. Whatever they wish to think, that will be their prerogative." He paused just a moment long enough, then said, "That is rather the case with all women, come to think of it." He flashed his teeth in amusement.
The vampire was in no condition to criticize accents. In decades upon decades, he had not managed to conquer his own original Britain English, as much as he might have liked to cultivate his French and Italian, which (at least) only possessed the influence of his youthful native teachers and the rather city-ish, intellectual taste of a second language learned very young. His German was only a little worse, and it tasted of university and philosophers rather than coffee shops and beer halls. He could put on an American accent to his English, as he did now, but it was only moderately successful. Even to Dietre's ear, he probably sounded foreign. Dietre certainly sounded foreign to Daniel.
He tipped his head, and then the wine glass, not finishing his as rapidly as Dietre did his, the first time in a long while Daniel was not quicker to finish his drink than a drinking partner. Daniel would have said something else regarding confusion, perhaps something to reassure the artist for the sake of it, but he couldn't think of anything quickly enough. He did meet the apprehensive look with an expression of civil patience and even expectancy, as if he couldn't imagine the music to be anything but what he expected. Such fragile artistry.
He did not, however, offer to move. He crossed one leg over the opposite knee away from Dietre's thigh, in some suggestion of space though not distaste. He leaned away onto his side and held his glass in the space between them. For a few moments, Daniel's eyes were arrested by the electric keyboard. It was a strange thing, and looked to him as delicate as Dietre. He was afraid, in the pause just before Dietre's fingers came down, that the electrical thing would make noises like the vinyl players in the record store, scratchy hisses in the background of the melody he so much wished to hear. But then the notes began, and it was not like that at all.
Daniel waited to see if the pause was simply one between movements, but when it proved not the case, he shifted in his seat, leaning forward over his knees. "Play again," he demanded. "Something else."