[Maybe V’s come closer to hitting the nail on the head than Johnny would ever care to admit; maybe there’s a part of him that is tired, but refuses to back down because that’s just not how he was put together, made of sterner stuff than steel. Maybe Johnny himself would argue that the best rebellious spirits are the tired ones, the jaded ones, because they’ve seen the world for what it is — enough to drain the life out of most men and women, but never enough to take the fight out of a revolutionary.
And if there’s one thing that he will never let go of, it’s his ideals. They’re strict and sturdy, as unmoving as the mountains stretched out before them in a dream, never loose or tenuous. Even if it kills him, he’ll hold onto them — hell, they already have.
A part of him wonders if V understands it, even sharing a head. Another facet hopes that if he imparts even one thing to the man, before whatever else happens in the future set in front of them, it’s the stubborn will to fight like Johnny fights, to push forward like only a rebel rockerboy can.
For now, though, all he does is let out something that sounds close to a laugh, strained at the edges like it had trouble leaving his throat.]
Not exactly what I was expecting to hear. [Idly, he plucks grass out from the ground, caught tight between his knuckles. Johnny’s always leaving some kind of chaos in his wake.] And what’s the story behind that one?
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And if there’s one thing that he will never let go of, it’s his ideals. They’re strict and sturdy, as unmoving as the mountains stretched out before them in a dream, never loose or tenuous. Even if it kills him, he’ll hold onto them — hell, they already have.
A part of him wonders if V understands it, even sharing a head. Another facet hopes that if he imparts even one thing to the man, before whatever else happens in the future set in front of them, it’s the stubborn will to fight like Johnny fights, to push forward like only a rebel rockerboy can.
For now, though, all he does is let out something that sounds close to a laugh, strained at the edges like it had trouble leaving his throat.]
Not exactly what I was expecting to hear. [Idly, he plucks grass out from the ground, caught tight between his knuckles. Johnny’s always leaving some kind of chaos in his wake.] And what’s the story behind that one?