dead man's party // oxo // closed

Beau smiles softly at her, shaking his head and causing a few pieces of hair to escape his lemon yellow scrunchie. "I wouldn't place a bet on nobody getting drunk out of their mind. Maverick is never one to turn down a drinking game, and that's proved much more problematic than helpful. He may be a massive guy, but he's a lightweight who's unable to say no." His smile slightly wavers at her more serious disposition. "No, no, you're all too fine, love. I guess this new change is sudden for us all. Poor Viv was the one who found Saylor, she was the closest to them. Don't take it the wrong way if she treats you kind of scummy for the first week or two. It takes her a while to get used to anybody."

The memory of he and Viv's first meeting almost causes him to laugh. They met at a club, she was a fine lady, he danced over to her and she spilled her drink on his head and firmly declared her lesbianism to the entire club. Afterwards they were kicked out and found a different club to play open-mic at. From there, she invited him to her band, which had only been her and her close friend Saylor.

The guitarist spares a quick look to the door Maverick disappeared behind, then listens for the running water of Viv's shower. Usually, Beau would feel depressed and lonely without his friends in the living area with him, but he's growing quite attached to Tabby. She's sweet, kind of clueless but she has the spirit. A naturally gifted guitarist and quick learner, too. "Let's get back to playing, yeah?" Beau looks to his guitar, the high riff of Hotel Eight coming naturally to his fingers. "I want you to play this but down it an octave."

(hi, im so sorry bestie i have been struggling lately aldskjf too much homework and even more burnout and the rp brainworms have not been kind to me)

Beau smiles as he watches her play for a few moments. As she lowers it to the proper octave, Beau takes his opportunity to play the main riff of Hotel Eight over the top of it. He has to admit that it sounds nice–not nearly as practiced as what it had been, but it's definetely something Beau can work with. "You've got it, darling!" He says, his unfortunate London accent seeping through his words. If Viv were here, she'd throw something at him and tell him to shut up. His accent is annoying and Beau disrespectfully disagrees. Everything about him is perfect.

"I think you're just lingering too long on the end here–stop the notes quick, we don't want a reverb that could tangle things up." He shows her his quick-stop tactic for his notes. "But other than that, I think we're at a good starting point." He smiles, a flashy sort of thing. He may be British but at least he takes decent care of his teeth. "After you do the lick, you follow the key changes the rest of the band is taking. I don't remember exactly what switch we make, but trust me, it will feel right when you play with us. Instinct will take over."

(HI YEAH don't worry man I feel you,, it's the end of the year and I am feeling DEFINITELY burnt out. A little. A lot.)

Beau laughs softly, shaking his head and letting his hands lay limp on the neck and body of his guitar. "I thank you, darling." And he does. It's not often his stupid ego gets stroked, especially with bandmates like Viv and Maverick. They're amazing musicians and talented artists, but they could definitely use a little more coaching in the whole "Friends" department. Viv can be mean, Maverick can be oblivious. Is a decent set of friends too much for Beau to ask? `

The sudden question jars Beau a bit, but he's quick to recover with a smile. "No, don't worry about it, love. And yeah, I'm from London. I lived there until I was seventeen before I ditched the Big Ben for the Big Apple." He snorts. God, that was what? Five–six years ago? "All the heavy metal bands in England were full or failing, so I thought my best bet would be here." He winks. "And I was right."

(I UNDERSTNAD DW)

"Yeah, it's all pretty different," Beau laughs with a shake of his head. "For instance, they drive on the wrong side of the road over here. Also, they insist on calling crisps chips? And their chips are called french fries for whatever reason. They're not even French?" He throws his hand up in mock expiration. "I guess London will always be my home, but I've left it behind. America's where my future's at."

Beau had started out swallowed by the punk scene when he was a pre-teen. His brother liked to drag him to mosh pits and it was a miracle he didn't break any bones while the Clash criticized every single aspect of government and society. When his mother forbade him from becoming a punk, Beau decided he'd become a metal head. He grew his hair to a mullet, got a few tattoos and wore leather gloves everywhere he went. His first band was made out of his best friend's garage. They all pretended they could play music until they actually learned.

"Well, I appreciate those kind words, love," Beau smiles his stupid flirty smile and leans back on his hands. "How about you? Where did you come from?"