he stands half-shrouded in the shadow of the doorway, wincing at each sour note. they're still as prominent as the first time, but there's something endearing about it now, how frank plays on despite the mistakes, almost as if it doesn't matter if he improves. it isn't until the notes soften to the song's end that he steps forward, hesitant, feet whisper-soft against the floor, bill stopping half a foot from the bench— the hesitation is deep-seated still, though, gradually, inches have been sheared from the distance.
“i have cassettes and records, you know,” he starts, breaking the silence. “instead of you butcherin' linda every day.” it's gruff, of course, but warm, too, an edge of amusement cutting into his tone, because it's not really that bad— and he seems so happy.
bill hesitates, then takes the final step forward, sitting beside frank, squinting as he glances at the music sheet, studying the notes (to avoid looking at frank.)
“or you could… start with something a lil' more basic. i could give you some, uh… tips.” / @doomdays