[prompto cannot actually believe that he spent the first day of halloween stressed from head to toes. the relief of seeing the newcomer he had lost to the police actually being okay and back at the safehouseâ he sure did sleep like a baby after the tension left his body.]
[he's gone for most of the day but returns towards the evening, deciding to get going with an errand and finding just the right thing to reintroduce himself to the man. (in many ways, prompto felt guilty for not bringing him in quickly and more effectively, so he wants to make up for it.) no halloween costume for him this time aroundâjust jeans and a sweaterâas he walks into the safehouse and makes a beeline for the man, who sits at a chair looking like he has no interest in keeping company.]
Hey.
[sighing, prompto sits down on a chair nearby, disturbing the relative silence by scraping the floor. he's brought the umbrella he had bought the first night, half-bent state, and another item, obviously a cane.]
I totally made it on time.
[maybe it's... childish, but he doesn't know how to break the ice.]
How are you feeling? Got you these, by the way.
Edited 2019-05-15 13:23 (UTC)
slaps it out of your hands....if we have to delete this thread later i'll laugh at u
[Promptoâs right: V has no real interest in keeping company, having chosen a spot in the corner of the common area to specifically avoid the path of foot traffic and extroverts alike. And yet here comes a familiar face, heralded by a familiar voice â less energetic than he remembers, though, noting it idly â and dark eyes sharpen with focus, tearing his attention away from his experimentations with his new implant.
The first thing he notes is the cane, of course, gaze sliding sliding up from its tip to its hilt; then to the umbrella, bent at its middle; then Prompto himself, plopping down on the chair across from him.
V looks less pale than when the young man first found him. The drugs having worn off have erased his nausea, and the sensation of awakening from a months-long nap has eased from his bones. He can move better, even sits a little straighter in his seat â and an arm extends, scrawled with dark tattoos (visible since heâs wearing only a threadbare short-sleeved tee as given to him by Morningstar in the color black), palm facing up.]
May I see it?
[The cane, he means. Everything else, the question included, is ignored for now.]
[prompto already knew that he wasn't going to be getting as many answers as he was delivering questions, so he's not all too surprised nor put off by being ignored for the sake of highlighting attention towards the cane. it makes sense, though; asking for a cane seemed way too specific to be something trivial.]
Here.
[he offers, raising the cane and tilting it towards him. his eyes scan over the other's arm, tattoos etches on the skin. curious.]
I hope it's the right height and weight. I know those are factors to take into account, but I'm notâ I'm no expert.
[He takes the cane, drawing his arm back. His other hand aids in balancing it straight so that he can inspect, applying whatever attributes it possesses against some invisible checklist in his head.
Itâs not like the one back home, of course. That one was of sturdy material, with a pointed tip made to pierce an ashen demonâs skull, a design at the hilt both unusual and subtly striking. This new one is not so unique â of proper height and sturdiness to support his frame, at least, and V stands without much warning to test it.
Dressed as he is, no longer in unflattering scrubs, itâs easier to see how slender his form is â the clothes he wears now are plain but they fit well enough, revealing a wan body, and so it doesn't take an exceptionally sturdy cane to hold him up. A hand whirls it once, then plants its tip against the floor of the safehouse. It makes a sharp clack.]
It suits me well enough.
[A lopsided grin, creeping onto his features. He considers Prompto.]
[he's glad it's good enough. prompto's put ankle to knee when the man made an effort up on his feet to test out the cane, hands now holding onto his leg as he leans back.]
You only ever really reacted when I mentioned something to help you walk with, and asking for a cane was so specific, I thought it was a little more than just a whatever thing. [...] Not to mention the whole thing with â the cops, and stuff.
[it's been two stressful days. he huffs and rolls his shoulders back to stretch his back muscles, as if the reminder of it was enough to make him feel annoyed and anxious all over again.]
[ultimately:]
I should have done a better job of bringing you here.
[V wishes it was the most stressful situation heâs been in. One of the more worrisome, maybe, given no one seems certain how or if heâll return home â but anxiety doesnât appear to live in his frame today. He falls into the familiar stance of leaning his weight onto the cane itself.]
I had one at home. Kept close during all hours of day and night, why wouldnât I want another here? Easier to walk with, and thereâs something nice about the familiarity in an unfamiliar world.
[In a place where even his actual familiars wonât heed his call.]
I didn't know that. You don't look old enough to need a walking aid.
[he says quietly, feeling somewhat like he's being told something he should know, but perhaps this is the most thanks he'll get. some people are like thatâand so prompto will just have to deal with it. the fact that v's talking to him might speak volumes, anyway.]
V, right?
[prompto's just glad he's okay, even if this much he won't be outright about.]
I know you're gonna tell me that if it wasn't my job I have nothing to feel responsible for, but still. It's just how I feel. At least you're up on your feet [no pun intended] and it'll be easier for you to get around now.
[the umbrella (purple) falls to the floor as prompto forgets about its existence for a moment. he leans down to pick it up again.]
âI am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am Joy is my name, Sweet joy befall thee!âÂ
âŠThatâs right, you can call me V.
[That thin grin still existing on his features, V moves to sit, like his recitation of Blake was no big deal. Given how easily he quotes it, it probably isnât.]
Age has little to do with weariness, and how frail a body can be. Iâm sure youâve noticed, but Iâm not the strongest man to ever walk the earth. But as for your responsibilities and how you failed them, keep in mind that certain avenues of opportunities wouldnât exist to us now if you had succeeded.
[V lifts his cane up, hilt-forward this time, to prod at the umbrella when itâs in Promptoâs hands.]
[prompto makes a face (what does this mean), confused what v is saying at first.]
[but there is no clarification and nothing to lead him into understanding anything of what that was, but one thing is for sure: it sounded nice. a little more theatrical than normal, spoken language. it elates something in promptoâalthough he isn't sure what that is.]
[his attention is wrapped away elsewhere, however, as v sits and returns to giving answers that are more than short sentences meant to cut a conversation off.]
There's always two sides to a coin, I guess. [he wonders, then frownsâ] I got this for you [raising the umbrella] during the carnival. Before you disappeared!
[he looks down at it; the bent, purple umbrella has festive decorations of skulls and witches and cats, all black outlines. prompto doesn't understand the references, but it was the bigger one of all available umbrellas.]
I did have five minutes.
[yeah, it's pretty broken. he just kind of ... mirrors v's cane positioning with the umbrella, just because he feels weirdly possessive of it now (it and all its imperfections!!)]
[At least V finds the patterned design on the umbrella itself novel, if a little cliche. He especially likes the little trail of black cats, with the tails in the air, weaving in-between the skulls and witch hats.
Prompto seems to have a liking for it, at any rate, if how closely he keeps it to his body is of any indication. V doesnât seem to care; he has no need for a broken umbrella.]
It was.
[Again, eyes sweep across Prompto, as if trying to judge just how interested he really might be.]
But, to be fair, I'm not from Earth, either. I'm from a place called Eos, which is totally a planet kinda like this one, except we got different kinds of plants and animals and â lore.
[he nods, feeling wicked cool at using that word.]
We did poetry back in school and there's some names I could remember off the top of my head, like... Siggurd Grandi and Oric Cantor.
[âV repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue might give him an idea of what his world is like.]
Iâve never heard of them, but thatâs not so surprising. Do you think you could recite a few lines from their poems⊠[Tips his cane over to lean on his other leg, then balancing it accordingly. His brow is furrowing, like heâs trying to recall something thatâs slipped away.]
And I wouldn't be able to remember anything about the poems for the life of me. It was like... five years ago? And I haven't really thought about it since . I'll try and remember, but I'm more into visual stuff.
[rubbing his nose, he adjusts his seating, too.]
Is your name literally just V? Is William Blake a super popular guy where you're from?
[Prompto Argentum. And heâs asking him about dubious naming conventions.]
Thatâs right. Prompto. How could I forget? Are you a man of readiness like your name implies?
[He almost asks "what kind of visual stuff"; he assumes the equivalent of television is his meaning, but they can loop back to that later.]
And V is what I go by. Itâs as good as anything else I couldâve picked for myself. [He knows that doesnât answer the question, but he continues as if it doesnât matter, or wonât go into detail. Both are likely true.] William Blakeâs been dead for more than a hundred years, but he was a very influential poet and painter in my world â or at least, in the western world.
[And yet V, despite this comment, doesnât seem to be too bothered to answer them. He shifts in his seat a little, leaning forward.]
Your name is Latin, Mr. Silver. [lol] And Iâm a fan because I enjoy the imagery, the simplicity of construction that still lends itself to a sense of⊠well, mysticism, you could say. Even though he was a religious man â or maybe because he was, thereâs an otherworldly and ephemeral quality to many of his poems.
What I recited to you what a portion of Infant Joy. Itâs only two stanzas long.
It's Lucian. [lol] âbut you're saying it means something in a language from Earth? What's 'silver,' Prompto or Argentum? Also, don't call me that again. [wtf]
[but despite his mid-rant, prompto actively listened to what v had to say about the poet and the poems. he actually takes a moment to take in the words, putting one hand on his chin as if in consideration, foot jogging not quite in impatience, but rather energetic curiosity.]
âArgentumâ. Therefore, Mr. Silver. [Wow thatâs rude he thought it was clever, okay.
But fine, he wonât make another pass at the name, not when heâs been requested to recite something a second time. And so V continues to lean forward, this time placing a hand on the hilt of his cane and balancing it there, fingers curling gently.
He starts from the beginning, since he had left out a line initially.]
âI have no name I am but two days old.â
[(What he had told Dante that day he visited him as a new client, a proffered introduction rooted in irony.)]
âWhat shall I call thee? I happy am Joy is my name, Sweet joy befall thee!â
[he said not to call him that again, v you fucking weaselâ]
[he lets it go in lieu of the other seeming to get into position to deliver the requested stanza. and although he listens to it again, it makes very little sense to prompto. it's straightforward, in a way, but it does hold some mystery to it (or questions, rather) that he feels are left unanswered. who is the one speaking in the poem? are there two individuals, or one? are they individuals at all?]
[as these questions pile on him, his brow furrows and his usual anxious fidgeting is gone. clearly, he's trying to concentrate.]
I think I get what you mean. The... mysticism stuff. [lmao, HE THINKS] What's the second stanza like?
[it looks like prompto is about to say something towards the end of the poem, but all that comes from him is a slightly-opened mouth, ready to breathe out words that never come.]
[yeah, he's got nothing on this fucking poem.]
This is just like in school. I'm not good at abstract stuff.
[maths and poems and the like. give him an actual hands-on project and analyzing purely the superficial, and he's pretty much set to succeed. anything else goes past him like it holds no weight.]
It has a nice rhythm to it! You obviously like the stuff a lot.
[leaning back on the chair, the umbrella falls back on the floor and prompto startlesâhaving forgotten it, and decides to leave it where it is, instead, keeping arms crossed.]
[back to v now.] Must have taken you a while to learn it.
It's straightforward enough, Prompto. [It isn't so much criticism, not really. V isn't so arrogant that he would deride someone who shows a sincere interest in a recited poem. Instead, he eases into explanation.] The meaning is in the title, "Infant Joy". The joy of a new life coming into being, and how the outside world might also impress joy upon it.
[There's a subtle sort of enthusiasm that V exudes when he speaks about poetry, hard to pin down. The way his mouth upticks into a different kind of smile, or a different kind of light behind his eyes. Yet V is still all casual demeanor when he leans back in his chair again, though his hand still grips idly at his cane.]
I told you I've been a fan for a while. When I was... younger, I used to read often. Especially poetry.
[It's technically true, at least, if one stretches the truth just a little. But Prompto doesn't have to know that.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
opens up another can and pours it in glass
[he's gone for most of the day but returns towards the evening, deciding to get going with an errand and finding just the right thing to reintroduce himself to the man. (in many ways, prompto felt guilty for not bringing him in quickly and more effectively, so he wants to make up for it.) no halloween costume for him this time aroundâjust jeans and a sweaterâas he walks into the safehouse and makes a beeline for the man, who sits at a chair looking like he has no interest in keeping company.]
Hey.
[sighing, prompto sits down on a chair nearby, disturbing the relative silence by scraping the floor. he's brought the umbrella he had bought the first night, half-bent state, and another item, obviously a cane.]
I totally made it on time.
[maybe it's... childish, but he doesn't know how to break the ice.]
How are you feeling? Got you these, by the way.
slaps it out of your hands....if we have to delete this thread later i'll laugh at u
The first thing he notes is the cane, of course, gaze sliding sliding up from its tip to its hilt; then to the umbrella, bent at its middle; then Prompto himself, plopping down on the chair across from him.
V looks less pale than when the young man first found him. The drugs having worn off have erased his nausea, and the sensation of awakening from a months-long nap has eased from his bones. He can move better, even sits a little straighter in his seat â and an arm extends, scrawled with dark tattoos (visible since heâs wearing only a threadbare short-sleeved tee as given to him by Morningstar in the color black), palm facing up.]
May I see it?
[The cane, he means. Everything else, the question included, is ignored for now.]
i think i might actually cry
Here.
[he offers, raising the cane and tilting it towards him. his eyes scan over the other's arm, tattoos etches on the skin. curious.]
I hope it's the right height and weight. I know those are factors to take into account, but I'm notâ I'm no expert.
weep more
Itâs not like the one back home, of course. That one was of sturdy material, with a pointed tip made to pierce an ashen demonâs skull, a design at the hilt both unusual and subtly striking. This new one is not so unique â of proper height and sturdiness to support his frame, at least, and V stands without much warning to test it.
Dressed as he is, no longer in unflattering scrubs, itâs easier to see how slender his form is â the clothes he wears now are plain but they fit well enough, revealing a wan body, and so it doesn't take an exceptionally sturdy cane to hold him up. A hand whirls it once, then plants its tip against the floor of the safehouse. It makes a sharp clack.]
It suits me well enough.
[A lopsided grin, creeping onto his features. He considers Prompto.]
Iâm surprised you went to the effort, though.
i'm deleting anyway
[he's glad it's good enough. prompto's put ankle to knee when the man made an effort up on his feet to test out the cane, hands now holding onto his leg as he leans back.]
You only ever really reacted when I mentioned something to help you walk with, and asking for a cane was so specific, I thought it was a little more than just a whatever thing. [...] Not to mention the whole thing with â the cops, and stuff.
[it's been two stressful days. he huffs and rolls his shoulders back to stretch his back muscles, as if the reminder of it was enough to make him feel annoyed and anxious all over again.]
[ultimately:]
I should have done a better job of bringing you here.
fine bye
I had one at home. Kept close during all hours of day and night, why wouldnât I want another here? Easier to walk with, and thereâs something nice about the familiarity in an unfamiliar world.
[In a place where even his actual familiars wonât heed his call.]
Was it your job to bring me here?
â€
[he says quietly, feeling somewhat like he's being told something he should know, but perhaps this is the most thanks he'll get. some people are like thatâand so prompto will just have to deal with it. the fact that v's talking to him might speak volumes, anyway.]
V, right?
[prompto's just glad he's okay, even if this much he won't be outright about.]
I know you're gonna tell me that if it wasn't my job I have nothing to feel responsible for, but still. It's just how I feel. At least you're up on your feet [no pun intended] and it'll be easier for you to get around now.
[the umbrella (purple) falls to the floor as prompto forgets about its existence for a moment. he leans down to pick it up again.]
Guess you won't want this one anymore, huh.
no subject
âI am but two days old.
What shall I call thee?Â
I happy amÂ
Joy is my name,
Sweet joy befall thee!âÂ
âŠThatâs right, you can call me V.
[That thin grin still existing on his features, V moves to sit, like his recitation of Blake was no big deal. Given how easily he quotes it, it probably isnât.]
Age has little to do with weariness, and how frail a body can be. Iâm sure youâve noticed, but Iâm not the strongest man to ever walk the earth. But as for your responsibilities and how you failed them, keep in mind that certain avenues of opportunities wouldnât exist to us now if you had succeeded.
[V lifts his cane up, hilt-forward this time, to prod at the umbrella when itâs in Promptoâs hands.]
Did it rain?
no subject
[but there is no clarification and nothing to lead him into understanding anything of what that was, but one thing is for sure: it sounded nice. a little more theatrical than normal, spoken language. it elates something in promptoâalthough he isn't sure what that is.]
[his attention is wrapped away elsewhere, however, as v sits and returns to giving answers that are more than short sentences meant to cut a conversation off.]
There's always two sides to a coin, I guess. [he wonders, then frownsâ] I got this for you [raising the umbrella] during the carnival. Before you disappeared!
[he's huffing]
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You found me an umbrella to act as a cane? [A brow arches.] I can appreciate the effort, but it mightâve been a little too short. Andâ
[ITâS BROKEN?]
ânot exactly very reliable.
1/2
[he looks down at it; the bent, purple umbrella has festive decorations of skulls and witches and cats, all black outlines. prompto doesn't understand the references, but it was the bigger one of all available umbrellas.]
I did have five minutes.
[yeah, it's pretty broken. he just kind of ... mirrors v's cane positioning with the umbrella, just because he feels weirdly possessive of it now (it and all its imperfections!!)]
[(he thought it'd be a funny joke)]
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[instead, prompto pushes onward to try and keep the conversation going, not wanting to leave or sit around in awkward silence.]
That stuff that you were saying a minute ago. Was that poetry?
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Prompto seems to have a liking for it, at any rate, if how closely he keeps it to his body is of any indication. V doesnât seem to care; he has no need for a broken umbrella.]
It was.
[Again, eyes sweep across Prompto, as if trying to judge just how interested he really might be.]
William Blake. Are you familiar with him?
no subject
But, to be fair, I'm not from Earth, either. I'm from a place called Eos, which is totally a planet kinda like this one, except we got different kinds of plants and animals and â lore.
[he nods, feeling wicked cool at using that word.]
We did poetry back in school and there's some names I could remember off the top of my head, like... Siggurd Grandi and Oric Cantor.
no subject
[âV repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue might give him an idea of what his world is like.]
Iâve never heard of them, but thatâs not so surprising. Do you think you could recite a few lines from their poems⊠[Tips his cane over to lean on his other leg, then balancing it accordingly. His brow is furrowing, like heâs trying to recall something thatâs slipped away.]
âŠWhat was your name again?
no subject
[he says, sniffling. it's been chilly outside.]
And I wouldn't be able to remember anything about the poems for the life of me. It was like... five years ago? And I haven't really thought about it since . I'll try and remember, but I'm more into visual stuff.
[rubbing his nose, he adjusts his seating, too.]
Is your name literally just V? Is William Blake a super popular guy where you're from?
no subject
Thatâs right. Prompto. How could I forget? Are you a man of readiness like your name implies?
[He almost asks "what kind of visual stuff"; he assumes the equivalent of television is his meaning, but they can loop back to that later.]
And V is what I go by. Itâs as good as anything else I couldâve picked for myself. [He knows that doesnât answer the question, but he continues as if it doesnât matter, or wonât go into detail. Both are likely true.] William Blakeâs been dead for more than a hundred years, but he was a very influential poet and painter in my world â or at least, in the western world.
Iâve been a fan for quite a while.
no subject
The what? It's just a name.
[lol at latin existing but not existing.]
[although he supposes that v could go by whatever name he would like to go by, since here everyone can pick at what new identity they want.]
Why are you a fan? [just questions upon questions] That what you said before, that's a poem of his, right?
no subject
[And yet V, despite this comment, doesnât seem to be too bothered to answer them. He shifts in his seat a little, leaning forward.]
Your name is Latin, Mr. Silver. [lol] And Iâm a fan because I enjoy the imagery, the simplicity of construction that still lends itself to a sense of⊠well, mysticism, you could say. Even though he was a religious man â or maybe because he was, thereâs an otherworldly and ephemeral quality to many of his poems.
What I recited to you what a portion of Infant Joy. Itâs only two stanzas long.
no subject
[but despite his mid-rant, prompto actively listened to what v had to say about the poet and the poems. he actually takes a moment to take in the words, putting one hand on his chin as if in consideration, foot jogging not quite in impatience, but rather energetic curiosity.]
...could you say it again? The stanza.
no subject
But fine, he wonât make another pass at the name, not when heâs been requested to recite something a second time. And so V continues to lean forward, this time placing a hand on the hilt of his cane and balancing it there, fingers curling gently.
He starts from the beginning, since he had left out a line initially.]
âI have no nameÂ
I am but two days old.â
[(What he had told Dante that day he visited him as a new client, a proffered introduction rooted in irony.)]
âWhat shall I call thee?Â
I happy amÂ
Joy is my name,
Sweet joy befall thee!â
no subject
[he lets it go in lieu of the other seeming to get into position to deliver the requested stanza. and although he listens to it again, it makes very little sense to prompto. it's straightforward, in a way, but it does hold some mystery to it (or questions, rather) that he feels are left unanswered. who is the one speaking in the poem? are there two individuals, or one? are they individuals at all?]
[as these questions pile on him, his brow furrows and his usual anxious fidgeting is gone. clearly, he's trying to concentrate.]
I think I get what you mean. The... mysticism stuff. [lmao, HE THINKS] What's the second stanza like?
[without preamble,]
You have a nice voice, by the way.
no subject
But for now, the rest is as easily quoted as the first half.]
âPretty joy!Â
Sweet joy but two days old,Â
Sweet joy I call thee;Â
Thou dost smile.Â
I sing the whileÂ
Sweet joy befall thee.â
[The last line stressed and slowed, indicating its end. Only then does Prompto get any kind of thanks for the wayward compliment.]
âŠI appreciate the compliment.
no subject
[yeah, he's got nothing on this fucking poem.]
This is just like in school. I'm not good at abstract stuff.
[maths and poems and the like. give him an actual hands-on project and analyzing purely the superficial, and he's pretty much set to succeed. anything else goes past him like it holds no weight.]
It has a nice rhythm to it! You obviously like the stuff a lot.
[leaning back on the chair, the umbrella falls back on the floor and prompto startlesâhaving forgotten it, and decides to leave it where it is, instead, keeping arms crossed.]
[back to v now.] Must have taken you a while to learn it.
no subject
[There's a subtle sort of enthusiasm that V exudes when he speaks about poetry, hard to pin down. The way his mouth upticks into a different kind of smile, or a different kind of light behind his eyes. Yet V is still all casual demeanor when he leans back in his chair again, though his hand still grips idly at his cane.]
I told you I've been a fan for a while. When I was... younger, I used to read often. Especially poetry.
[It's technically true, at least, if one stretches the truth just a little. But Prompto doesn't have to know that.]
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