Oh, darling, if I ever cross your mind
He has been traveling without leaving the same four walls. And it’s something that’s as thrilling as it is enticing – getting glimpses into other people’s minds and memories, the opulence to some spaces that weren’t at all what they were like in real life but with the added fantasy flourish added in. So he hums a soft laugh, a shrug of his shoulders once he’s taken another sip of the rum from his glass. “Lemme know when you’ll be around and I can show ya how they work.” A crash course.
He, too, is warm from the liquor as it fills him and he relaxes tenfold being around an old friend despite the crowd that still pulses with commotion and excitement for the game at hand. He watches it idly, snagging on the main prize just a heartbeat after Damien’s spotted it. His lips quirk up as he crosses his arms, getting a little bit more comfortable where he’s standing (because he isn’t too keen initially on entering the game when he can watch from back here.) “Does look real nice.” He admits, eyeing it a bit more before he spots Damien downing a healthy sip from his glass in his peripheral.
So he straightens up, pushes off of the beam he’d been leaning against to hear the proposition. “Sure, fuck it.” Thorn says with a laugh, kicking his bag under the ledge so it’s in the shadow so no one can swipe it. He downs his drink, feeling the buzz in his veins before he’s loosening out his arms and stepping over to clasp Damien on the back, gripping his shoulder with a playful motion. “I’m pretty rusty, though.” Which is his sly way of saying I know you’re not gonna go easy on me but don’t rub it in.
Then, the courtesan steps forward, pushing through the beat and pulse of the crowd to get to the section of barrels that signify the competition.
He, too, is warm from the liquor as it fills him and he relaxes tenfold being around an old friend despite the crowd that still pulses with commotion and excitement for the game at hand. He watches it idly, snagging on the main prize just a heartbeat after Damien’s spotted it. His lips quirk up as he crosses his arms, getting a little bit more comfortable where he’s standing (because he isn’t too keen initially on entering the game when he can watch from back here.) “Does look real nice.” He admits, eyeing it a bit more before he spots Damien downing a healthy sip from his glass in his peripheral.
So he straightens up, pushes off of the beam he’d been leaning against to hear the proposition. “Sure, fuck it.” Thorn says with a laugh, kicking his bag under the ledge so it’s in the shadow so no one can swipe it. He downs his drink, feeling the buzz in his veins before he’s loosening out his arms and stepping over to clasp Damien on the back, gripping his shoulder with a playful motion. “I’m pretty rusty, though.” Which is his sly way of saying I know you’re not gonna go easy on me but don’t rub it in.
Then, the courtesan steps forward, pushing through the beat and pulse of the crowd to get to the section of barrels that signify the competition.
Hawthorn
Won't you let me know?
