[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.
It’s not like the one back home, of course. That one was of sturdy material, with a pointed tip made to pierce an ashen demon’s skull, a design at the hilt both unusual and subtly striking. This new one is not so unique — 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, it’s easier to see how slender his form is — 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 — 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 he’s been in. One of the more worrisome, maybe, given no one seems certain how or if he’ll return home — but anxiety doesn’t 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 wouldn’t I want another here? Easier to walk with, and there’s something nice about the familiarity in an unfamiliar world.
[In a place where even his actual familiars won’t 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 that—and 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.]
‘I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am Joy is my name, Sweet joy befall thee!’
…That’s 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 isn’t.]
Age has little to do with weariness, and how frail a body can be. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I’m 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 wouldn’t exist to us now if you had succeeded.
[V lifts his cane up, hilt-forward this time, to prod at the umbrella when it’s in Prompto’s 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 prompto—although 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 frowns—] 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 doesn’t 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 — 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.
[—V repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue might give him an idea of what his world is like.]
I’ve never heard of them, but that’s 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 he’s trying to recall something that’s 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 he’s asking him about dubious naming conventions.]
That’s 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. It’s as good as anything else I could’ve picked for myself. [He knows that doesn’t answer the question, but he continues as if it doesn’t matter, or won’t go into detail. Both are likely true.] William Blake’s been dead for more than a hundred years, but he was a very influential poet and painter in my world — or at least, in the western world.
[And yet V, despite this comment, doesn’t 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 I’m 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 — or maybe because he was, there’s an otherworldly and ephemeral quality to many of his poems.
What I recited to you what a portion of Infant Joy. It’s only two stanzas long.
It's Lucian. [lol] —but 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.]
‘Argentum’. Therefore, Mr. Silver. [Wow that’s rude he thought it was clever, okay.
But fine, he won’t make another pass at the name, not when he’s 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.]
‘I have no name I am but two days old.’
[(What he had told Dante that day he visited him as a new client, a proffered introduction rooted in irony.)]
‘What shall I call thee? I happy am Joy is my name, Sweet joy befall thee!’
[he said not to call him that again, v you fucking weasel—]
[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 startles—having 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.]
[he's definitely the type of person who, despite being so earnest, doesn't get to see it clearly until someone else spells it out for him. at least he's smart in other subjects.]
Hate to break it to you, but there aren't any books here. There's, uh, [looking through his pocket, he finds some pins—QR codes etched over the cheap metal.] an online archive. [he's reaching over so he can give v the pins] Don't know if it works on your implant yet, but if you take a picture of those codes and scan them, you get like — a 10-day free access to online books you'd have to buy otherwise.
[This far into the future, long past the threshold of stepping into a digital age, the fact that there are no physical books to be found isn't surprising to V. During his time at the station, he noticed a dearth of paperwork passing hands (even if he was not in a position to be dealing with paperwork, he was certain he would've spotted at least one stray document in passing), and there was none to be seen in the safehouse, either.
It was an inevitability even in his own time. But to be living it, with the wide scope of the internet basically existing in his head now, is almost surreal.
It threatens to make him frown; that is, until Prompto fishes out some messily etched pins from his pocket, and V nearly tilts his head, holding out his free hand in a bid to look at a one or two of them.
(What a person eager to help, he thinks. Overly friendly, even to a stranger who had caused more trouble than good.)]
Let me take a look, then?
[He can try to access wherever the QR code leads him, if it'll work with no registered ID. He needs to practice using this invasive thing in his head.]
Not that it'll ever replace the feel of a book in my hands. What a dreary future this is.
[he easily relinquishes them into the ownership of the other.]
If I find more I'll make sure to drop them off with you. They're not that difficult to come by. And, well, the future's not so bad. It's missing a few things, but I'm really into all this tech stuff.
[that being said,] You're still learning to use the implant, right? It'll become second nature soon enough, but lemme know if you have any questions.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
weep more
It’s not like the one back home, of course. That one was of sturdy material, with a pointed tip made to pierce an ashen demon’s skull, a design at the hilt both unusual and subtly striking. This new one is not so unique — 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, it’s easier to see how slender his form is — 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.]
I’m 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 — 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 wouldn’t I want another here? Easier to walk with, and there’s something nice about the familiarity in an unfamiliar world.
[In a place where even his actual familiars won’t heed his call.]
Was it your job to bring me here?
❤
[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 that—and 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.
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‘I am but two days old.
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,
Sweet joy befall thee!’
…That’s 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 isn’t.]
Age has little to do with weariness, and how frail a body can be. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I’m 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 wouldn’t exist to us now if you had succeeded.
[V lifts his cane up, hilt-forward this time, to prod at the umbrella when it’s in Prompto’s hands.]
Did it rain?
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[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 prompto—although 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 frowns—] 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 might’ve been a little too short. And—
[IT’S BROKEN?]
—not 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 doesn’t 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?
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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 — 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.
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[—V repeats, as if testing the name on his tongue might give him an idea of what his world is like.]
I’ve never heard of them, but that’s 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 he’s trying to recall something that’s slipped away.]
…What was your name again?
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[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?
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That’s 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. It’s as good as anything else I could’ve picked for myself. [He knows that doesn’t answer the question, but he continues as if it doesn’t matter, or won’t go into detail. Both are likely true.] William Blake’s been dead for more than a hundred years, but he was a very influential poet and painter in my world — or at least, in the western world.
I’ve been a fan for quite a while.
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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?
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[And yet V, despite this comment, doesn’t 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 I’m 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 — or maybe because he was, there’s an otherworldly and ephemeral quality to many of his poems.
What I recited to you what a portion of Infant Joy. It’s 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 won’t make another pass at the name, not when he’s 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.]
‘I have no name
I am but two days old.’
[(What he had told Dante that day he visited him as a new client, a proffered introduction rooted in irony.)]
‘What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,
Sweet joy befall thee!’
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.]
‘Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.’
[The last line stressed and slowed, indicating its end. Only then does Prompto get any kind of thanks for the wayward compliment.]
…I 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 startles—having 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.
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[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.]
no subject
[his expression perks up just like that.]
That makes a lot of sense now!
[he's definitely the type of person who, despite being so earnest, doesn't get to see it clearly until someone else spells it out for him. at least he's smart in other subjects.]
Hate to break it to you, but there aren't any books here. There's, uh, [looking through his pocket, he finds some pins—QR codes etched over the cheap metal.] an online archive. [he's reaching over so he can give v the pins] Don't know if it works on your implant yet, but if you take a picture of those codes and scan them, you get like — a 10-day free access to online books you'd have to buy otherwise.
[he's resourceful like that]
Maybe there's some poetry in there.
[here's a friendly smile]
no subject
It was an inevitability even in his own time. But to be living it, with the wide scope of the internet basically existing in his head now, is almost surreal.
It threatens to make him frown; that is, until Prompto fishes out some messily etched pins from his pocket, and V nearly tilts his head, holding out his free hand in a bid to look at a one or two of them.
(What a person eager to help, he thinks. Overly friendly, even to a stranger who had caused more trouble than good.)]
Let me take a look, then?
[He can try to access wherever the QR code leads him, if it'll work with no registered ID. He needs to practice using this invasive thing in his head.]
Not that it'll ever replace the feel of a book in my hands. What a dreary future this is.
no subject
[he easily relinquishes them into the ownership of the other.]
If I find more I'll make sure to drop them off with you. They're not that difficult to come by. And, well, the future's not so bad. It's missing a few things, but I'm really into all this tech stuff.
[that being said,] You're still learning to use the implant, right? It'll become second nature soon enough, but lemme know if you have any questions.
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