on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
He hasn’t taken into account the feeling that the admission might spark. He hasn’t exactly gotten a chance to fully cement it verbalized from the little potential thoughts running around in his head. The separation suddenly feels so shocking and surprising to him, especially when he’d been here for.. Fiveish years now? He thought he’d stay here forever in the comfort of fine rooms and the stories people had, the worlds the rooms made for him to get lost in.
But then he’d made a friend and she’d left and since then, he’s felt like he’s on the sidelines, watching and waiting and seeing all of the things she can create – all the things she’s asked for his help creating. The architectural part of his mind yearns for it, but the comfort of the familiarity of how his life has been feels strictly rooted.
And of course, it doesn’t help when Casimir is still staring at him like that – even if all Thorn has to go off of is his own imagination and the one-sided banter they’ve had over the years.
So, he fidgets, fingers trying to find something to do when he watches the glass be taken and refilled without him asking – and it’s as good as a continuation of the conversation as he can get, really, when Cas isn’t sending those handsome daggers toward him. The courtesan reaches out when the dull echo of Casimir’s taps to the counter of the bar start to fade, snagging the glass and lifting it to his lips. “Thanks.” He says behind the rim of the glass, taking a sip and swallowing down the burn until his head feels a little less knotted.
And it seems he’s still captured the bartender’s silent attention, but something about it this time is different. It’s tense. It’s watchful in the way Thorn could be with his rowdier clients – a thought that has a muscle feathering in his jaw as the glass is sat down again. “She asked me t’help her design some stuff.” He starts to explain, before his freehand is finding its way toward his mouth, where he might be able to nibble at a fingernail – but before Thorn gets that far, he just traces the pads of his fingertips along his bottom lip in thought. “But there’s like.. nothing there yet but sand an’ I don’t know if I’d be any good at startin’ over again, y’know?” The knots of the admission start to unravel with the help of the amber liquid courage, spilling out of him like a faucet he can’t turn off yet, and with a sudden urgency in his seafoam gaze he looks up at Casimir with his brows pinched like the silent man might have the answer he seeks (when in reality, he just wants to see some hint that he might be missed if he does go through with it; it might be enough to get him to stay).
But then he’d made a friend and she’d left and since then, he’s felt like he’s on the sidelines, watching and waiting and seeing all of the things she can create – all the things she’s asked for his help creating. The architectural part of his mind yearns for it, but the comfort of the familiarity of how his life has been feels strictly rooted.
And of course, it doesn’t help when Casimir is still staring at him like that – even if all Thorn has to go off of is his own imagination and the one-sided banter they’ve had over the years.
So, he fidgets, fingers trying to find something to do when he watches the glass be taken and refilled without him asking – and it’s as good as a continuation of the conversation as he can get, really, when Cas isn’t sending those handsome daggers toward him. The courtesan reaches out when the dull echo of Casimir’s taps to the counter of the bar start to fade, snagging the glass and lifting it to his lips. “Thanks.” He says behind the rim of the glass, taking a sip and swallowing down the burn until his head feels a little less knotted.
And it seems he’s still captured the bartender’s silent attention, but something about it this time is different. It’s tense. It’s watchful in the way Thorn could be with his rowdier clients – a thought that has a muscle feathering in his jaw as the glass is sat down again. “She asked me t’help her design some stuff.” He starts to explain, before his freehand is finding its way toward his mouth, where he might be able to nibble at a fingernail – but before Thorn gets that far, he just traces the pads of his fingertips along his bottom lip in thought. “But there’s like.. nothing there yet but sand an’ I don’t know if I’d be any good at startin’ over again, y’know?” The knots of the admission start to unravel with the help of the amber liquid courage, spilling out of him like a faucet he can’t turn off yet, and with a sudden urgency in his seafoam gaze he looks up at Casimir with his brows pinched like the silent man might have the answer he seeks (when in reality, he just wants to see some hint that he might be missed if he does go through with it; it might be enough to get him to stay).
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
