#//if you thought johnnie was gonna get away without simon being a whore... HA. GUESS AGAIN.

[oceanoecielo]

The young man could politely disagree as much as he wanted, but it would still be true.  Everybody’s work does and will get forgotten, even if it is remembered for a sustained period of time.  Even if somebody’s work is recognized for as long as there are people on Earth, just give the universe a billion or a trillion years, and the Earth will be blasted into oblivion by its own sun, nobody left alive to remember anything, including the fact that this floating dustmote ever existed in the first place.

It is easy to predict where he was going with that, especially given that the man has undoubtedly heard it from others.  But when other people say it, they don’t understand it.  They don’t feel the weight behind it, the power, the freedom in it, not in the way that Simon does.  When other people say it, they do so to be depressing and—dare he say—edgy, all, ‘What’s the point of doing anything if it’s all not going to matter to anybody else?’  And Simon believes that to be a massive load of rubbish.

If those people understood anything, they would know why it’s essential to do things and have fun instead of constantly stressing oneself out over things that don’t matter.  Nothing matters!  There’s no need to worry about mistakes or failures, not like he did when he was working under Tintoretto, trying to complete his masterpiece on the side.  He was so occupied with being good enough, being great enough, and when he embraced the fact that there would always be something much, much bigger than him, he started enjoying life for the first time.

“It seems we’re both off our game today,” Simon says with a chuckle and a wink as he draws his hand away.  “Our teachers would be ashamed of us, so how about we make this our secret, hm?  What they don’t know won’t kill them?  But it is a pleasure to meet you, and I’m sure they’d be contented knowing I said that much.”

He then waves off the notion of him being learned.  “My boy, my education was so long ago, I barely remember it now.”  That is not expressly true.  He still paints, and indeed, he remembers just about all of the techniques he learned from Tintoretto and some others he has picked up over the centuries.  But anything resembling a formal education is four and a half centuries behind him, and he remains behind in most subjects.  He could attend classes—he has the time and money for it—but he would rather spend both on drinking, dancing, fucking, and adventuring.

“Wise, maybe,” he allows with another small chortle, “although who knows, seeing as I still can’t get people to heed my advice.”  Not that it is important.  People will do whatever they want, and Simon will not allow that to ruffle him.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says.  “We’ve only just met!  And while I am given to boredom, I think two minutes would be a bit ludicrous, even for me.”  Then, as he usually does when talking to new men, he decides to test the waters with a little flirt.  “Besides, it’s hard for me to lose interest in such a handsome face.”  There are, after all, many things that Simon can think to do with such a man once one or both of them tire of conversation.

“Astute, aren’t you,” he praises, raising his eyebrows.  “Yes, I’ve been living in London for some time, although people there sometimes ask me where I’m from, too.”  While the years have washed almost every trace of Italy from Simon’s voice, there remains something about his English accent that doesn’t sit quite right, although it is distinctive enough to be recognized by outsiders.  “I stand out a little more here, don’t I?  But yes, I’m from there; I just travel often, for both business and pleasure.”  His eyes flick pointedly over Johnnie’s person.  “I’m still on the fence about which this is.”

@oceanoecielo // cont. from here!

Johnnie simply watches the man with bewilderment, brows furrowing at the implication that no one was important. He could see where the older man was going; everyone dies and most of their work is forgotten. However, before he could politely disagree, there's a hand being offered to him. The journalist takes it and gives a nice, firm shake as he was taught to do.

A matching smile grows on Johnnie's face as well before he introduces himself. "Johnnie Herschel-Gold," he states, "I suppose I've missed my own classes; I should've introduced myself before asking such a question. It's a bit rude of me, isn't it? My apologies." He gives a light-hearted laugh, shaking his head. Perhaps they both had their idiosyncrasies, such as appearing absolutely odd yet so intriguing at the same time. Such quirks added character though, did they not?

"Oh no, I'm just as curious too! There's certainly a lot to see and learn about out there. I'm sure you're wiser and more learned than I am, though," he remarks as he switches weight to his better leg, idly holding onto his cane. "I hope I've not lost your curiosity then! I'd hate to be boring, sir. You see, I can't stand it either!" He was mentally kicking himself, feeling his attempts at small talk were indeed boring. Such a peculiar guy warranted his attention, however. "You're--you're from England, are you not? My family's from overseas, but I've never been myself."