[the constant pressing with the cane onto his shoulder seems to tap at a more subconscious part of himself, and prompto does—finally—seem to get the hint and keeps himself against the cushions and bench, little of an attempt to move away from in at any point in the near future. he crumples up his jacket into a ball, pushing his hands into its creases, and lets it sit as is on his lap.]

[v is talking and prompto is basically not paying a lot of attention.]

Y'know the tradition will become you reading stuff, right? I thought you knew 'em by memory, though... kinda loses the magic.

[that's disappointment in his voice, but also his brain is muddled by the alcohol.]

—are you havin' fun?

[prompto did invite him, so...]