on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
He thinks it might stay like this – with Thorn offering all of the conversation for the night. He doesn’t mind – he knew what he was getting into when he’d successfully pestered the bartender into stepping out of the House of Midnight’s dark din of comfort and indulgences. The problem is that because he doesn’t know much about Casimir, he unintentionally aims for everything that burrows under the attuned’s skin, the kind that drags against scars long since patched over, tearing through them with reckless abandon.
Sipping from his water, he sets the glass back down and glances up at Casimir, unaware of the destruction he’s leaving in his wake, because apparently for however much the bartender is worried about hurting him, Thorn’s own vines tangle and choke the other man. He doesn’t know, doesn’t see it for what it is. It’s not a branding burn that he can look at and point to and say that’s where it hurts. The slow strangle of the vines leave little to nothing behind as they slowly creep in and tighten over a longer span of time.
Eyes finding Casimir’s face again with all the ease and amusement lingers there, watching as he tries to say something before deciding against it. Temporarily, at least. Thorn thinks it’s another attempt to get him to fall for it – but the jokes on Casimir. He’d fallen for it once already, he wouldn’t do it again.
‘This is hard for me.’ Now the jokes on Thorn – and all amusement and ease and casual effortlessness fade in a brittle instant. Concern has his brows pinching together, a rigidity settling in his spine. He could joke about it, he could blow it away and pretend like Cas was overreacting. But Thorn spent a lot of time with people and their insecurities in his line of work, and in some ways found himself in a similar boat that Casimir did. An unintentional therapist, only Thorn couldn’t get away with the quiet watchfulness and non-answers that the bartender did.
“Which part?” He asks softly, letting it drop in his own low murmur – not as deep as Casimir’s lovely voice when he does hear it. But it’s calm and cool and completely at odds with his usual free, devil may care attitude. There’s concern and worry in the lines of his face, more sober now than he was before. He realizes shortly after that Cas doesn’t really need to answer the first question, because he’d hazard a guess and say that it was kind of all of it. “Fuck, 'm sorry. How can I help?” He asks instead, suddenly realizing that it was him that had selfishly projected all this fun onto the bartender, not realizing how much of a hell it might have actually been.
He'd try whatever he wanted, honestly. Thorn was nothing if not a chameleon, slipping into different skins depending on what someone needed at that moment, and while he waits for Casimir's answer, he can already feel the usual shape of him grow taut, ready to swap at a moments notice.
Sipping from his water, he sets the glass back down and glances up at Casimir, unaware of the destruction he’s leaving in his wake, because apparently for however much the bartender is worried about hurting him, Thorn’s own vines tangle and choke the other man. He doesn’t know, doesn’t see it for what it is. It’s not a branding burn that he can look at and point to and say that’s where it hurts. The slow strangle of the vines leave little to nothing behind as they slowly creep in and tighten over a longer span of time.
Eyes finding Casimir’s face again with all the ease and amusement lingers there, watching as he tries to say something before deciding against it. Temporarily, at least. Thorn thinks it’s another attempt to get him to fall for it – but the jokes on Casimir. He’d fallen for it once already, he wouldn’t do it again.
‘This is hard for me.’ Now the jokes on Thorn – and all amusement and ease and casual effortlessness fade in a brittle instant. Concern has his brows pinching together, a rigidity settling in his spine. He could joke about it, he could blow it away and pretend like Cas was overreacting. But Thorn spent a lot of time with people and their insecurities in his line of work, and in some ways found himself in a similar boat that Casimir did. An unintentional therapist, only Thorn couldn’t get away with the quiet watchfulness and non-answers that the bartender did.
“Which part?” He asks softly, letting it drop in his own low murmur – not as deep as Casimir’s lovely voice when he does hear it. But it’s calm and cool and completely at odds with his usual free, devil may care attitude. There’s concern and worry in the lines of his face, more sober now than he was before. He realizes shortly after that Cas doesn’t really need to answer the first question, because he’d hazard a guess and say that it was kind of all of it. “Fuck, 'm sorry. How can I help?” He asks instead, suddenly realizing that it was him that had selfishly projected all this fun onto the bartender, not realizing how much of a hell it might have actually been.
He'd try whatever he wanted, honestly. Thorn was nothing if not a chameleon, slipping into different skins depending on what someone needed at that moment, and while he waits for Casimir's answer, he can already feel the usual shape of him grow taut, ready to swap at a moments notice.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
