on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
Oh how he notices the way Casimir gets comfortable. He notices the undone button at the top of his shirt that had been prim and proper before. But there’s something new he spies as he regards the bartender in all the silent ways he tries to be sly and sneaky as he scans the ‘menu’. He already knows what he intends to get, but he plays along so that Casimir doesn’t feel awkward about not knowing what he might want yet, and all the while he’s drinking in the rough gnarled edge of a scar that makes an appearance again, the way it reminds him of his own in a way that almost seems like it’s dimming the already low light of the restaurant.
He doesn’t have it in him to ask if it was similar to his story, of the way a trusted lover could betray someone to the point where it became if I can’t have you, no one can. The thought of mentioning it dies on his tongue, drying up where he wishes he had water magic to conjure it into a glass like their Archon could do, or that he might have taken a few more sips of the water Casimir had given him to try and filter out the alcohol one way or another.
Instead, he tracks the tattoo that’s new and fresh, visible in the way he hasn’t seen before. Reaching up as though it has long fingers, hard to see when it dips below. He has one of those too – only the opposite. The shackles of thorny vines that wrap around his wrists trail up the back of his arms and up his elbows, following the curve of the backs of his arms to his shoulders where they start to trail along each side of him, each branching dark green vine following the curvature to his hips before they connect finally along his lower back. A series of flowers bloom from the combination, though half are hard to see where they dip below the waistline of his pants – all that much more for people to wonder about.
Thorn doesn’t realize he’s being studied in turn, though. And in a moment of weakness, he reaches up to rub at his left collarbone, the sheer fabric moving with the motion. And when his hand slips away, the pale and raised scar tissue is seen as though a knife had embedded itself there at an angle, aiming for a more intentional target within him.
He shakes himself out of it by the time the waiter comes by, back into the rhythm of ease and flirtiness, a feline grin spreading across his face as he leans slightly against the bar and toward them. “Water, please. An’ I think I’ll get the pesto gnocchi.” He pauses, head tilting as he regards the menu again. “An’ some cheese bread for the table.” Lowering the menu, he looks over to Casimir with an easier, less flirty smile – the real Thorn beneath the mask. “An’ whatever he’s havin’.” He opens it up for Cas to say what he’d like – being a bit of an asshole in how he puts him on the spot to speak again.
He doesn’t have it in him to ask if it was similar to his story, of the way a trusted lover could betray someone to the point where it became if I can’t have you, no one can. The thought of mentioning it dies on his tongue, drying up where he wishes he had water magic to conjure it into a glass like their Archon could do, or that he might have taken a few more sips of the water Casimir had given him to try and filter out the alcohol one way or another.
Instead, he tracks the tattoo that’s new and fresh, visible in the way he hasn’t seen before. Reaching up as though it has long fingers, hard to see when it dips below. He has one of those too – only the opposite. The shackles of thorny vines that wrap around his wrists trail up the back of his arms and up his elbows, following the curve of the backs of his arms to his shoulders where they start to trail along each side of him, each branching dark green vine following the curvature to his hips before they connect finally along his lower back. A series of flowers bloom from the combination, though half are hard to see where they dip below the waistline of his pants – all that much more for people to wonder about.
Thorn doesn’t realize he’s being studied in turn, though. And in a moment of weakness, he reaches up to rub at his left collarbone, the sheer fabric moving with the motion. And when his hand slips away, the pale and raised scar tissue is seen as though a knife had embedded itself there at an angle, aiming for a more intentional target within him.
He shakes himself out of it by the time the waiter comes by, back into the rhythm of ease and flirtiness, a feline grin spreading across his face as he leans slightly against the bar and toward them. “Water, please. An’ I think I’ll get the pesto gnocchi.” He pauses, head tilting as he regards the menu again. “An’ some cheese bread for the table.” Lowering the menu, he looks over to Casimir with an easier, less flirty smile – the real Thorn beneath the mask. “An’ whatever he’s havin’.” He opens it up for Cas to say what he’d like – being a bit of an asshole in how he puts him on the spot to speak again.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
