on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
The shrug is as noncommittal as the rest of the conversation, and for that Thorn finds some amount of comfort in it. But what he’s starting to put together from the aloofness (and also never really seeing him outside of this place) is that the bartender tended to haunt the House of Midnight much like the spirits of the graves surrounding the building in the Barrows.
It causes the courtesan to squint at him – far more obvious than he would otherwise be, but Thorn is hammered now and despite the water in the glass that’s overspilled and left a puddle behind that he’s dragging his fingers through, he hasn’t quite sobered up at all. The silence continues, and the longer he stares at the other man, the more Thorn realizes it’s almost an impossible task to keep his mouth shut. He watches him, finding zero cracks in a perfect mask, one that’s always been stellar and perfect and he wishes he had that amount of luck with his own.
But his mask is fractured already, enough to let his insecurities out on display. He’s grateful there’s no potential clients nearby to see the stringed up mess the courtesan is at this present moment. It’s a blessing only Casimir gets to see.
He stares at him – both seeing and unseeing – but he catches the challenge in the other man’s gaze, the dare that sits below the surface. “Oh, so you’re a hermit?” He asks, head tilting so much that one could wonder if the courtesan had an avian shift. He doesn’t, but it doesn’t stop him from staring at Casimir like he can take apart all the layers of the handsome bartender and piece them back together in a puzzle that made sense. “When’s yer shift over today?” He asks, hand lifting to the rim of the glass of water to drag his wet fingers along the top in a circular motion.
It causes the courtesan to squint at him – far more obvious than he would otherwise be, but Thorn is hammered now and despite the water in the glass that’s overspilled and left a puddle behind that he’s dragging his fingers through, he hasn’t quite sobered up at all. The silence continues, and the longer he stares at the other man, the more Thorn realizes it’s almost an impossible task to keep his mouth shut. He watches him, finding zero cracks in a perfect mask, one that’s always been stellar and perfect and he wishes he had that amount of luck with his own.
But his mask is fractured already, enough to let his insecurities out on display. He’s grateful there’s no potential clients nearby to see the stringed up mess the courtesan is at this present moment. It’s a blessing only Casimir gets to see.
He stares at him – both seeing and unseeing – but he catches the challenge in the other man’s gaze, the dare that sits below the surface. “Oh, so you’re a hermit?” He asks, head tilting so much that one could wonder if the courtesan had an avian shift. He doesn’t, but it doesn’t stop him from staring at Casimir like he can take apart all the layers of the handsome bartender and piece them back together in a puzzle that made sense. “When’s yer shift over today?” He asks, hand lifting to the rim of the glass of water to drag his wet fingers along the top in a circular motion.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
