on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
He really should know better than to expect Casimir to answer. But for now, the courtesan is thoroughly distracted on the other side of the bar with the not-too-long-ago memory of the way it had felt to be pressed against the bar that way, the heat that soaked through his body in a way that simultaneously craved further closeness and felt inherently dangerous. Instead of saying any of those things, though, Thorn instead chooses to watch quietly as he sets the glass down he’d sipped from, eyes scanning over the newly bared forearms for the first time tonight and sees the muscle that twitches with the movement as Cas folds his arms across his chest.
His seafoam gaze flits up to catch the silent and flat stare, making the courtesan only shift a little closer across the bar, returning to his liquid grace like a cat, draping across the bar toward Casimir like a siren song. “I was thinkin’ pasta too!” He says with a gasp of excitement, brightening up. He returns to that playful charade, only this time Thorn winks one of his kohl-lined eyes toward the bartender.
Taking his gaze away from Casimir for a split second, he glances up toward the clock to see how much time had passed, and while it hasn’t been quite enough yet to steal the bartender away, it is close enough that he can see the other, less fun bartender start to get on shift. While this other bartender wasn’t as fun, he’s also a quiet and watchful type. But unlike Casimir, the other bartender usually lets Thorn get away with anything he wants.
Knowing this, he puts on his most charming smile, greeting him. “Hey! D’ya think it’d be okay if Casimir left his shift a few minutes early?” There’s that sparkling glint to his gaze again, one that the other bartender picks up on and glances over at Casimir with a barely hidden there smile of amusement. ’Sure, nobody’s going to mind.’ And with that answer, the strings of familiarity of this game in this place are sliced through.
Thorn slips out of the stool to stand and thank the bartender, before his glittering gaze flits to Casimir again, eager and barely hidden excitement. “C’mon, we gotta get t’the sign post before it gets colder.” With a surprising amount of energy, Thorn still sways slightly as he moves to the coat rack to snag his leather jacket – a sleek black biker-type of cut, well-worn and cherished – and slips it on, adjusting his shirt beneath it. Brushing his hair back and out of his face, Thorn glances over his shoulder to make sure Casimir is coming.
His seafoam gaze flits up to catch the silent and flat stare, making the courtesan only shift a little closer across the bar, returning to his liquid grace like a cat, draping across the bar toward Casimir like a siren song. “I was thinkin’ pasta too!” He says with a gasp of excitement, brightening up. He returns to that playful charade, only this time Thorn winks one of his kohl-lined eyes toward the bartender.
Taking his gaze away from Casimir for a split second, he glances up toward the clock to see how much time had passed, and while it hasn’t been quite enough yet to steal the bartender away, it is close enough that he can see the other, less fun bartender start to get on shift. While this other bartender wasn’t as fun, he’s also a quiet and watchful type. But unlike Casimir, the other bartender usually lets Thorn get away with anything he wants.
Knowing this, he puts on his most charming smile, greeting him. “Hey! D’ya think it’d be okay if Casimir left his shift a few minutes early?” There’s that sparkling glint to his gaze again, one that the other bartender picks up on and glances over at Casimir with a barely hidden there smile of amusement. ’Sure, nobody’s going to mind.’ And with that answer, the strings of familiarity of this game in this place are sliced through.
Thorn slips out of the stool to stand and thank the bartender, before his glittering gaze flits to Casimir again, eager and barely hidden excitement. “C’mon, we gotta get t’the sign post before it gets colder.” With a surprising amount of energy, Thorn still sways slightly as he moves to the coat rack to snag his leather jacket – a sleek black biker-type of cut, well-worn and cherished – and slips it on, adjusting his shirt beneath it. Brushing his hair back and out of his face, Thorn glances over his shoulder to make sure Casimir is coming.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
