Oh, darling, if I ever cross your mind
Torchline always held a special place in his heart, from the way that personal space seemed to be more of a suggestion than a societal norm, to the way the docks and the Port had a very noticeable shift when the sun began to set - smiling pleasantries of fishermen shifting to the cloaked, shadowed grins of smugglers that flitted through here and there. Today, however, it’s different. There’s a certain energy in the air that is vibrant, palpable, like he could reach out to it and touch it.
He’d stumbled upon it, of course, having come to run an errand (in which it was to attire some new clothing in varying shades for the colder Leafchange that King’s End harbored). And with the bag in hand, well familiar with the pirates and thieves that bounded around the docks picking up on somewhat defenseless people like the vibe he’s sure he’s giving off right now.
Thorn’s lucky in avoiding the mass swell of people, the scream of a fiddle and rowdy voices that lift and fall with the tune that ignites the party, backed by the echoing voices of the ocean’s waves rushing along underneath them and to the beach not that far away. And with a crowd this big? Well, he’s definitely not making the skyship back to King’s End, going so far as to linger on the outskirts and watch it with a touch of melancholy at seeing it take off and the party drift further into the open space offered.
“Well fuck.” Thorn mutters, reaching up to rake a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching briefly at his scalp as he thinks. He scans the crowd, lingering on a group of tourists swept up in the mess but looking utterly delighted, and then — then, Thorn scans those lingering on the outskirts along with him.
Catching eyes with someone, his brows pinch immediately, recognition stirring somewhere deep within him. Not here, not in Torchline, but older… It hits him a few seconds later, breaking his melancholy into a bright smile of disbelief, pushing his way through the brief crowd to get up next to the other man. “No fuckin’ way. Damien??” He asks, hope glittering in his chest as he takes in the older vision of an old friend.
Thorn looks different now, though the mop of hair is the same. Sea foam eyes are just as bright and excited as they had once been, but instead of being bundled in furs and jackets that Halo required with a slightly bulky build from the work his father often made him do, he's grown leaner and willowy. He's taller now, and with the heat of Torchline this season, he's wearing tight pants paired with a billowy sheer shirt, far more open than anything one would dare to wear in the cold climate they came from. And along his body, the tan of sun and the dark hue of tattoos spread, wrists wrapped in the dark ink of vines with thorns like shackles, trailing up the backs of his arms to his back and down, swirling their floral patterns along his hips to dip below his pants. His ears boast a few piercings each, shiny and glittering in the torch light of the Port as he beams up at Damien.
He’d stumbled upon it, of course, having come to run an errand (in which it was to attire some new clothing in varying shades for the colder Leafchange that King’s End harbored). And with the bag in hand, well familiar with the pirates and thieves that bounded around the docks picking up on somewhat defenseless people like the vibe he’s sure he’s giving off right now.
Thorn’s lucky in avoiding the mass swell of people, the scream of a fiddle and rowdy voices that lift and fall with the tune that ignites the party, backed by the echoing voices of the ocean’s waves rushing along underneath them and to the beach not that far away. And with a crowd this big? Well, he’s definitely not making the skyship back to King’s End, going so far as to linger on the outskirts and watch it with a touch of melancholy at seeing it take off and the party drift further into the open space offered.
“Well fuck.” Thorn mutters, reaching up to rake a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching briefly at his scalp as he thinks. He scans the crowd, lingering on a group of tourists swept up in the mess but looking utterly delighted, and then — then, Thorn scans those lingering on the outskirts along with him.
Catching eyes with someone, his brows pinch immediately, recognition stirring somewhere deep within him. Not here, not in Torchline, but older… It hits him a few seconds later, breaking his melancholy into a bright smile of disbelief, pushing his way through the brief crowd to get up next to the other man. “No fuckin’ way. Damien??” He asks, hope glittering in his chest as he takes in the older vision of an old friend.
Thorn looks different now, though the mop of hair is the same. Sea foam eyes are just as bright and excited as they had once been, but instead of being bundled in furs and jackets that Halo required with a slightly bulky build from the work his father often made him do, he's grown leaner and willowy. He's taller now, and with the heat of Torchline this season, he's wearing tight pants paired with a billowy sheer shirt, far more open than anything one would dare to wear in the cold climate they came from. And along his body, the tan of sun and the dark hue of tattoos spread, wrists wrapped in the dark ink of vines with thorns like shackles, trailing up the backs of his arms to his back and down, swirling their floral patterns along his hips to dip below his pants. His ears boast a few piercings each, shiny and glittering in the torch light of the Port as he beams up at Damien.
Hawthorn
Won't you let me know?
