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Voicemail!

"It would appear that your desire to speak to me is getting in the way of something I like to call 'the pursuit of riches happiness.' If you leave a name, number, slice of cake in my doorway, and how much you'll be paying me if I return your call, I might just."

~BEEP~

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A Flat In Brighton, Thursday Evening

"I'm a very important man, you know," Valentine said, conversationally, to the spaniel at his feet. "I had a tower. And it was an excellent tower, at that. Huge. Hundreds of rooms, staircases that went nowhere in particular. Windows! Plenty of windows. Though... maybe not quite enough windows, come to think about it. Hindsight is always 20/20 you know, Bojangles. Possibly better than that, even. I certainly don't imagine that my eyesight could have been considered anywhere near as good back when I had my proper face. Wee little pinholes, you understand. A more philosophical man might speculate that it was because of my narrow view of the world, or some such rubbish. If you ask me, it was just narrow enough, yes sir. None of that crazy advertising being thrown in my face at every glance. No need to watch customers at the restaurant stuffing their faces ten minutes before my dinner break every day. No glancing at the so-called director snogging whatever lovely little thing he's hired on to stage manage, or props manage, or costume design, or work the sound board every spare moment of every rehearsal. He's ruining my art, you know. My vision. The world would be a better place if I directed all amateur theatre productions. If you ask me, and you should ask me, dog, because I certainly know these things, the world would be a far better place if it was all windows and pinholes."

Bojangles, for his part, simply blinked up at Valentine, and then resumed gnawing on the shoe he'd found. Valentine was just making noises again.

"And possibly ears. Does nobody from this world really know how to properly listen to brilliant words when they're offered out for free?"

[For she who lives here, should she desire, and anyone who might have a burning desire to phone up a very important man. Perhaps you're feeling particularly masochistic and would like to have your ear spoken off?]

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A Flat In Brighton, Sunday Afternoon

And that was that! With the holiday season over, things had gotten a little more quiet around the home of Valentine, Namine, and little Mr. Bojangles.

Which, of course, meant there was plenty of time between work and the theatre for Valentine to come up with insane schemes involving too much spare time, a cast of unwitting extras, and a crack-movie franchise that would possibly never die.

A grin on his face, he dialed his costume mistress (Ah, Sokka), to share his beautiful, beautiful inspiration!

And later, when he wound up with that odd message on his machine, he would have to return it, of course.

[NFB for distance, alas, but I had to get Valentine in on this. Open for the girl, of course, and anyone who would like to phone, be it the right number or otherwise!]

A Flat in Brighton, Late Christmas Eve

T'was the night before Christmas
And in Valentine's flat,
A Very Important Man was stirring--
No, setting a trap.

I don't even know.Collapse )

[I think most of the people he associated with are away for the holidays, but open for OOC, which is shiny, or phone calls if people do happen to be about. Happy Holidays!]

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Brighton, by the Pier, Thursday Evening

Valentine was a very important man. He had a...

Well. He didn't have a tower. He had a flat, now. In Brighton. A high school education. A decent job waiting tables. A beautiful girlfriend. He'd auditioned for a role in some sort of local play last month, and rehearsals were already underway. He was almost starting to get used to the fact that he was missing his face. This was, apparently, all part of being real.

Who would have thought?

Still and all, old habits tended to die hard. And so, this particular afternoon, he was standing by Brighton Pier, taking full advantage of the city's thriving tourist population by juggling, his jacket spread out on the ground in front of him.

No, he wasn't necessarily soliciting for money. But he certainly wouldn't turn any down, should any wealthy tourist decide they would like to help him line his pockets.

"And anyhow," he said, his words falling into a rhythm with the one-two-three of the juggling balls hitting and leaving his hands again, "the man is absolutely daft. Can't make up his mind if he's coming or going. Directors these days. Absolutely nothing like the way I would run a show, you know. I'd bring a sense of style to the performance. Of class. And I would know, of course, which way is up."

[For one! NFB, 'cause this is Brighton and all. YAY.]
Valentine had gone and gotten himself a job.

It was a good job. A strong job. A decent job. A job to take pride in. A job that Valentine would pay the bills on. A job that would allow him to bring home food and new clothing and a million other things that he'd never been able to do when his sole source of income was juggling on the sidewalks. It was a job that made him square his shoulders and say,

"Valentine, you're a bloody amazing waiter."

Even if his first day at work had proven to be... slightly catastrophic. His employer had given him a second chance, and the next day had gone far more smoothly. Less boom, fire, volcanoes, more "Yes sir, may I take your order sir," and "No, ma'am, that doesn't have to come with the capers. Might I recommend the cracked peppercorns instead?"

Being a juggler, a performer, and a lover of fine food, day two of the new job had proven to be far, far more amenable than day one had been. At the rate he was going, he was in line for a raise - a raise! And perhaps someday, he might even strive to own a fine restaurant of his own. One had to dream big dreams, after all. It simply wouldn't do for him to settle with considering himself to be merely the greatest waiter Brighton had ever seen.

This accomplishment piling up onto a dozen other fantastic moments he'd had lately, Valentine settled himself in the somewhat broken-down loveseat that he and Naminé had inherited (and made a note that he'd have to replace that! With his own money!), and he picked up the telephone and dialed Fandom.

There were people he hadn't spoken to since before he left, after all.

[Nfb for distance. But open for anyone who might like a phone call from a Very Important Man.]

A Flat in Brighton, Wednesday Afternoon

Valentine hadn't spent the entirety of his time in the real world thus far simply sitting in front of a mirror, making faces at himself.

Simply most of it. The rest of that time was spent on the beach with a trio of juggling balls, busking for spare change. Lunch money, it had accounted to. There was enough money in Jason's bank account to cover rent for another month, but if Valentine was planning on eating through June and supporting Naminé as well, then he was going to have to get himself...

A job. A real job.

He'd never held down a real job in his life.

And so, with a hefty sigh (and another raspberry at himself in the mirror for good measure), Valentine at long last stood up and set out to find himself some form of respectable employment.

Even if it meant becoming a waiter.

[NFB for distance, of course. NFI, unless you want to phone him on his way out? I'll get the hang of this Alum thing, yet.]

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Room 206, Thursday Morning

Packing. There was packing to be done, if Valentine was going to be headed back to his own world to seek out the MirrorMask.

There were-- Well. He, personally, didn't have much to bring along. A few changes of clothes, and that was about it.

It was the rest of the contents of the room that had him flummoxed. A few dresses, a sketchpad, a cat. If she managed to come back, at any point, to Fandom, perhaps she'd want them? Maybe he should have asked, in the dreams. "What do I do with your belongings?"

But that would have been too much like burying her.

And so, rather than making any sort of progress in leaps and bounds, he was going to stand there, locked in a staring contest with the cat.

Unless Valentine's ADHD kicked in, he was pretty much certain to win.

[The door is open a crack, and the post is open if you have any pressing Valentine needs. Now would be the time to deal with them.]

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Room 206, Wednesday Morning

Valentine had gone to bed last night, a new grief for a baby girl in a floppy coat fresh in his chest alongside that other pain, the one for the girl with the huge blue eyes that he'd given his heart to before. He hadn't suspected when he went to sleep that he'd dream again, or that it would be as vibrant as the dream that had come before, after the prom, with a Naminé who was also a Kairi, sitting, and drawing, and speaking about becoming whole and going back to the beginning, all the while keeping secrets from herself.

Last night's dream was all of that.Collapse )

[Establishy, but open to visit if you don't mind slowplay to the max.]