on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
It’s exactly how he expects, the silence and the low drum of the voices behind him quietly talking to one another behind velvet curtains or the open swathe of tables where people eat and drink at. It’s all a quiet backdrop compared to the louder thud of the glass by his head, the heavy bottom rocks glass with the amber liquid in it he’s hoping for. He doesn’t have to tell Casimir which one’s his favorite, because the bartender always knew.
But he is a little slow on the reaction, though, eventually lifting his head. He reaches out with one of the arms still folded on the counter to snag the glass, to spin it around and watch as the fingers of the liquor stick to the side for the sweetness – as if he’s some kind of whiskey connoisseur. He isn’t. He prefers the fruitier mixed drinks if he’s being honest, but something about today specifically required halovian whiskey.
The game goes as usual, the vocal silence met with the sound of action. The sound of liquor bottles moving and glasses clinking against the smooth countertop. And Thorn continues on his side, poking and prodding at Casimir until he might get a rise. He very rarely does, but each time he does is a moment the courtesan can cherish. (And he does.)
“I know what’chur thinkin’.” He pauses, taking a sip of the whiskey, swallowing it down before his seafoam gaze rises to scan the bartender. His kohl lined eyes linger on the dirty blond curls, the sleek black shirt that hides the muscle he’s confident hides beneath it, to the unimpressed eyes that are nearly a darker mirror of his own. “Thorn doesn’t drink whiskey when he’s workin’.” It’s a poor attempt at Cas’ voice, from the short amount of times he’s heard it, but he thinks he does a decent job, anyway. And besides, it wasn’t like the other man would be opposed to tell him sternly when he’s wrong.
“But I’m not workin’, am I? Haven’t had a single client in days. I’m goin’ stir crazy.” It’s another dramatic groan to this one sided conversation, the hand not currently holding the glass of whiskey rises to rest his elbow on the bar and prop his head onto the fist he makes, still keeping his gaze trained on the bartender like a lost dog. “So I might as well drink ‘n get the night started early. S'not like I'm gonna be needed.” Doesn’t matter if it’s the morning or the middle of the afternoon for Thorn to have a little self-contained pity party if it meant he got some kind of response from him.
But he is a little slow on the reaction, though, eventually lifting his head. He reaches out with one of the arms still folded on the counter to snag the glass, to spin it around and watch as the fingers of the liquor stick to the side for the sweetness – as if he’s some kind of whiskey connoisseur. He isn’t. He prefers the fruitier mixed drinks if he’s being honest, but something about today specifically required halovian whiskey.
The game goes as usual, the vocal silence met with the sound of action. The sound of liquor bottles moving and glasses clinking against the smooth countertop. And Thorn continues on his side, poking and prodding at Casimir until he might get a rise. He very rarely does, but each time he does is a moment the courtesan can cherish. (And he does.)
“I know what’chur thinkin’.” He pauses, taking a sip of the whiskey, swallowing it down before his seafoam gaze rises to scan the bartender. His kohl lined eyes linger on the dirty blond curls, the sleek black shirt that hides the muscle he’s confident hides beneath it, to the unimpressed eyes that are nearly a darker mirror of his own. “Thorn doesn’t drink whiskey when he’s workin’.” It’s a poor attempt at Cas’ voice, from the short amount of times he’s heard it, but he thinks he does a decent job, anyway. And besides, it wasn’t like the other man would be opposed to tell him sternly when he’s wrong.
“But I’m not workin’, am I? Haven’t had a single client in days. I’m goin’ stir crazy.” It’s another dramatic groan to this one sided conversation, the hand not currently holding the glass of whiskey rises to rest his elbow on the bar and prop his head onto the fist he makes, still keeping his gaze trained on the bartender like a lost dog. “So I might as well drink ‘n get the night started early. S'not like I'm gonna be needed.” Doesn’t matter if it’s the morning or the middle of the afternoon for Thorn to have a little self-contained pity party if it meant he got some kind of response from him.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
