on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
He does look for absolution, to hear the idea that maybe it isn’t a crazy idea and that he should go and broaden his horizons even more. He’s never been to the desert, and he has a chance to help build it from the ground up, which would have been a dream if Thorn were still ten years old. But he isn’t, and he’s well established, and he doesn’t even fully realize the extent of his feelings toward the bartender that stands across the bar from him no matter how much he prefers to be caught like a deer in the headlights of those hardened, blue green eyes.
They’re both fixtures for different reasons, and Thorn isn’t sure if it might unravel if he were to leave. That his absence might make the House feel less like home and more like a stranger the longer he forgot to look back — and worst of all, that Casimir might completely forget about him the second he steps out the door for the last time as a worker.
His mind is too fuzzy to contemplate how that makes him feel, so he focuses instead on the movement of the other man’s arms as he gets back into motion, and at this point he has managed to nibble on a nail as his glass is taken again. The blink and the tone of Casimir’s voice is something he’s not used to, and before he loses the courage to say it, it slips from the faucet of his mouth like an errant spray. “That you’d miss me if I did go, Cas.” There’s no Jaz this time, no snarky pet name given to him, the actual friendly shorthand of his name which he’s never done before.
His cheeks also have never flushed the way they do now, dark and hot and polar opposites of the seafoam gaze that watches the bartender, the way the hot trail of sudden embarrassment paints the tips of his pierced ears in a dark mirrored hue.
Thorn doesn’t flush, never this red. But he can’t take the words back now that they’ve left him, so the most he can do is drop his gaze to the bar and the flecks that have become familiar to him like pictures hung in a home — where you can remember where they came from and how they got there, but you never fully notice them once they’ve been up for awhile.
Unless you were actively seeking for something else to focus on.
They’re both fixtures for different reasons, and Thorn isn’t sure if it might unravel if he were to leave. That his absence might make the House feel less like home and more like a stranger the longer he forgot to look back — and worst of all, that Casimir might completely forget about him the second he steps out the door for the last time as a worker.
His mind is too fuzzy to contemplate how that makes him feel, so he focuses instead on the movement of the other man’s arms as he gets back into motion, and at this point he has managed to nibble on a nail as his glass is taken again. The blink and the tone of Casimir’s voice is something he’s not used to, and before he loses the courage to say it, it slips from the faucet of his mouth like an errant spray. “That you’d miss me if I did go, Cas.” There’s no Jaz this time, no snarky pet name given to him, the actual friendly shorthand of his name which he’s never done before.
His cheeks also have never flushed the way they do now, dark and hot and polar opposites of the seafoam gaze that watches the bartender, the way the hot trail of sudden embarrassment paints the tips of his pierced ears in a dark mirrored hue.
Thorn doesn’t flush, never this red. But he can’t take the words back now that they’ve left him, so the most he can do is drop his gaze to the bar and the flecks that have become familiar to him like pictures hung in a home — where you can remember where they came from and how they got there, but you never fully notice them once they’ve been up for awhile.
Unless you were actively seeking for something else to focus on.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
