whiskey, smoke and aces high

It's too bad. When did it get cool to be so sad? We're spinnin' backwards, did we all go mad?
Yeah, we're only human but w?'ve got hands and hearts and noses,
So stop and sm?ll the fucking roses

"Quale cervello?" The musician mutters under his breath, before stutter-stepping as Ronin guesses at his own nationality. "French." Rolling his eyes and not dignifying the guess with a response, it's only the offered cigarette that draws Remi back in. "Oh is that what that was?" He wonders of this apparent wit and charm. Was he taken in by it, regardless of how thickly their accents clashed that night? Absolutely. Was he going to let this man know, having just called him french? Fuck you.

Ronin. Remi's eyes take in the man's hard jawline which already threatens to turn purple thanks to Angry Soup, the biker leathers, and was that the shine of a dog tag around his neck? "Wow." He's too tired to fake sounding impressed. "Edgy." It isn't Ronin's fault he's been named as such, but there is something vaguely wandering fighter about him. Especially the no-master, part. The musician doesn't offer his own name. It had been his show the wandering samurai had come to, hadn't it?

Having believed his own lie that Peter Ronin was coming home with him, Remi thinks nothing of the way he unlocks the outer door to a rundown apartment complex. Shuffling up a few flights of stairs which smell of stained carpet and urine, eventually, they come to a door as unassuming as any other. Unlocking it reveals either exactly what you'd expect, or precisely the opposite.

It's a studio apartment meaning that basically everything Remi owns is on display, from his unmade bed, couch and chair that looked like they were pulled off the street (they were), to the baby grand piano that sits off in the corner and looks like it's worth enough to pay for the entire building, and then some. There are two guitars hung on the wall along with a violin, and a trumpet that is perched on top of the stove. Most notably are the bits of paper everywhere; lyrics and half-finished songs can be found on nearly every surface, with a few of the walls serving as notepads too. On the couch is what looks like the lumpiest blanket in the world, but is actually a dozing wolfhound. As the two enter though, the massive creature lifts his head appraising them with lazy golden eyes.

ThE RoCkStAr