on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
It’s so unfortunate that Thorn is too busy trying to find ways to keep himself occupied so that the admission doesn’t feel so jarring when it leaves his lips — because the courtesan absolutely misses the breath that’s inhaled. Instead, with the lemon now essentially useless, Thorn’s telekinesis continues to hover in front of him while he stares at it like he might find the secrets of life within the ravaged, used flesh of the citrus.
He fidgets, even if he notices belatedly the way the knife has been sat down, presumably to soon hear a complaint about how he’s just stolen this slice of lemon. Only, it isn’t that. It’s the continued silence that feels almost like it’s swollen, not the usual ease of Casimir’s typical quiet, but something else.
He could also be making it up. Thorn was the type to be creative, after all. But his seafoam gaze flicks up and sees the bartender run his fingers along the brief flicker of it he can see above the collar of his shirt. He looks away quickly, lest he’s caught, but it’s all for nothing when his gaze snaps back to Casimir with raised brows and a scoff already slipping from his throat.
The accusation is husky and deep and Thorn isn’t sure whether or not to be offended by the assumption or if it was a ploy to make him stay or at least think it over more. “I ain’t runnin’.” Thorn protests, wrinkling his nose as he reaches up to run a hand through his mostly tamed hair, the lemon falls into his empty glass now. “S’not like when I left Halo.” Or Torchline, for that matter. But his departure from Halo, running from the familial responsibilities and his father’s extreme disapproval, had been a story that wasn’t exactly quiet about Thorn’s journey to get here.
“It’s just.. my friend Colt’s runnin’ the desert now an’ I think she could use some help.” Casimir should remember the blonde rancher who’d ran the DeadIron Ranch before it burned down, the one that occasionally ended up here looking for him or Sunjata when she was around now.
He fidgets, even if he notices belatedly the way the knife has been sat down, presumably to soon hear a complaint about how he’s just stolen this slice of lemon. Only, it isn’t that. It’s the continued silence that feels almost like it’s swollen, not the usual ease of Casimir’s typical quiet, but something else.
He could also be making it up. Thorn was the type to be creative, after all. But his seafoam gaze flicks up and sees the bartender run his fingers along the brief flicker of it he can see above the collar of his shirt. He looks away quickly, lest he’s caught, but it’s all for nothing when his gaze snaps back to Casimir with raised brows and a scoff already slipping from his throat.
The accusation is husky and deep and Thorn isn’t sure whether or not to be offended by the assumption or if it was a ploy to make him stay or at least think it over more. “I ain’t runnin’.” Thorn protests, wrinkling his nose as he reaches up to run a hand through his mostly tamed hair, the lemon falls into his empty glass now. “S’not like when I left Halo.” Or Torchline, for that matter. But his departure from Halo, running from the familial responsibilities and his father’s extreme disapproval, had been a story that wasn’t exactly quiet about Thorn’s journey to get here.
“It’s just.. my friend Colt’s runnin’ the desert now an’ I think she could use some help.” Casimir should remember the blonde rancher who’d ran the DeadIron Ranch before it burned down, the one that occasionally ended up here looking for him or Sunjata when she was around now.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
