You're very kind. But I feel bad enough that I came all this way and can't help for a few days. :( I'd feel worse if you took any more time away from offering relief just to worry about me.
You shouldn't feel bad. I'd be heatsick in hours if we were shoveling out a desert. :) We mean to get food on our way back to the safe house, I'll make sure one of us brings you back soup with noodles. The pantry must be down to cricket paste and seaweed flakes by now.
[perhaps beating the feeling of loneliness and self-deprecating thoughts towards oneself means throwing himself to as many people online as possible. when noctis left, at least he had ignis to accompany his misery. now, the only one left of the small group loyal to the king of lucis, it's a lot harder to digest.]
[and it's like experiencing it—noctis leaving, too—all over again]
Well, I work the evenings, and I think Sansa could sew in her sleep.
[though he makes a mental note to ask if she's tired. they're still at the safehouse, so there's plenty of stolen coffee to go around. perhaps he could let her have a little of his beans in the morning.]
[prompto sends a message that confirms he'll be there at one point within the next two hours--if only to give himself the opportunity to really take his time getting ready and presentable as a human being, but taking away any meandering idea of bailing altogether. a time limit is essential, thus.]
[when he arrives at the tulip bar (he's never been here before), he squeezes through a crowd at the front door and looks around, looking a little lost. he's dressed in casual attire, hoping that it blends in just fine with a bar of this sort.]
[it takes him a few minutes to recognize jon snow, but he forces a smile despite himself and heads on over to the counter, sitting on a stool and leaning heavy on his elbow.]
[jon keeps busy with work. it's a surprisingly crowded night--he hasn't quite picked up the rhythm of the weeks yet, being busy learning the tricks of the trade. he wears a cowl from sansa over a worn black tank top and artfully tattered jeans (there's a white wolf peeking out on the back of the cowl's neck, and a few discreet dragonflies delicately arranged among the folds). when he sees prompto (he stands out, a little young and trendy for this crowd) he grins.]
Prompto Argentum.
[he nods up at the list of beers above his head, aware that prompto probably won't recognize most of them. it took him a while to learn which was which.]
What can I get you?
[he sets down what he was working on (a whiskey that is probably closer to barrel-aged vodka with a twist of lemon), nods at the gruff older-looking man who accepts it, and picks up his dispenser gun.]
Something dark, or light?
[best to keep it simple. prompto looks a little frayed around the edges, but he'd mentioned he'd been tired lately.]
[he looks up at the menu after jon points at it, tapping his foot while reading through it. he really has no clue what any of these are, and he's never quite been someone to venture much into bars in the first place.]
[he gets the impression that dark means stronger taste whereas the light ones are softer.]
[still looking up, he leans forward a bit more to be heard over the crowd.]
Something... light, maybe? [his eyes frame towards jon's face, questioning] Just something that isn't too strong!
[he brings up the beer menu, scanning for the lowest alcohol content. he's been annotating it with his own tasting notes, remembering the aggressively hoppy beers from his arrival. he picks something mellow and malty with a low percentage, that he might serve to sansa, and fills a glass.]
Glad to be back in New Amsterdam?
[jon's not particularly. his tone is a little dry.]
[he takes the glass from jon, bringing it close to his mouth but apparently not convinced about tasting it just yet. the question comes as a distraction from the fact, but not from what he's trying to run away from.]
[he makes a face.]
I didn't mind the snow in New Tokyo too much. It-- could be better circumstances, I guess?
[it's a little vague, but for as much as prompto is trying to keep it cool, a heavy sigh escapes him, and it looks like there's something bothering him.]
[it's hard enough accepting the money when people at the safehouse pay him back for picking up their takeout. charging his friends goes against all of his instincts as a stark relative. he fishes out a lemon wedge from a small jar, offers it to prompto.]
Try this.
[he frowns briefly, hesitating. he's not one to pry, but prompto seems to want to talk about something?]
[eyebrow raised, he takes the lemon wedge and gives it a bit of a squeeze... before dumping it into his beer? is he supposed to do that? he isn't too particular about the customs and traditions of beer drinking.]
[the taste is only a bit brighter, if anything, but it's not something he would complain about.]
[he shakes his head at first, but then his mouth twists, changing his mind. the glass is set down, leaning back on his arms, hands on opposing elbows.]
My friends from home aren't here anymore. [there's a crease of his brows, like he's trying to not be upset about it.] Found out when I got back.
[it's not okay, but prompto has to keep telling himself that so that he doesn't go to a bad place of self-deprecation and loathing his own set of circumstances.]
[his eyes settle on his hands as his head lowers.]
Like you said, there's people here who care about me. I just gotta remember that.
[obviously, it's not so easy to put into practice.]
[there's— some of that feeling which pushes through the empathy bond, journeying from his hand to his chest, alight in the blue glow. the sadness that comes from harboring those one holds close even if they're gone.]
[it might be a little too much for prompto, who— slightly abruptly —takes his hand back. he uses it to rub at his eyes, a helplessly loud sniffle as he picks up his slouch and straightens his back.]
It's suspicious if our chest are all glow-y and stuff.
[he frowns; he's not used to physical touch nor comfort, and he's obviously very paranoid about the whole being displaced situation. sure has been here for a couple of months.]
Sorry. [is what's muttered, instead, biting down the inside of his cheek.] It's not like they're dead. I need to get a grip.
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