on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
The morphing and shifting is what he’s good at – especially for being a magic wielder and not an attuned where it might come naturally. Thorn’s become a great version of someone that can become what’s needed of him, so much so that sometimes it was hard to find the real him underneath it all. The game he has with Casimir is the closest he tends to feel like himself and perhaps that’s why he’s tried so hard to keep this connection, even when he’s slowly starting to realize he’s choking both of them with it.
He watches Casimir like a doctor might survey a patient, monitoring for anything else he might have overstepped or overlooked, to see which point of himself had gone too far to see if he can still grip the ledge he’d jumped off of. He sees the muscles flare in the handsome face of the bartender, even if he won’t look at him. Not that he blames Casimir for it, for finding a thing that might make it easier to explain rather than the potential judgement that might sit on the watcher’s face.
Only, Thorn won’t have judgement written on his. If anything, it’s passive and easy and calm. He wants to fix this, to restore whatever little bit of the night that hadn’t been ruined before he’d stuck his glittering fingers into it. And when the voice comes, he can tell it’s trying to be something it isn’t. It also isn’t a chastise like he’s come to expect from the bartender. If anything, it’s almost gentle in the way it’s strained.
The courtesan chews on his bottom lip as he clutches the glass in one hand, ignoring as a drop of condensation trickles over his fingers to splatter on the table. There’s some kind of deepset realization there when he tells him he’s shifting – because Thorn had come a long way to be the one to admit that it’s what he does, but it’s extremely rare to hear it come from someone else. He feels like Casimir’s holding up a mirror for him to look at, and all at once Thorn’s tension starts to bleed out of him. His shoulders lose their tightness, but he can’t quite wipe off the concern just yet. “Y’can talk to me about it? It’s not like I’m gonna go and tell anyone.” He tries for that amusement in his tone, the playfulness that had been there before but even that feels as hollow and flat as the way his lips try to twitch up into a smile.
He can let Casimir think it’s himself causing the confusing switch in the conversation, but it’s Thorn’s hands that have also shifted the tides. “I want you to have a good time. I don’t wanna make it harder for you.” Usually, he might have some snappy, charming joke there with the innuendo he’s left open, but the courtesan’s honesty pours from him like honey – so similarly to when he hadn’t even dared to get out of Casimir’s grip back at the bar but tried to prove to him that he did consider them friends and he wanted them to have a good time. What good would come from Thorn blowing up the only real face he’d known for years that was still around? That he saw daily?
He watches Casimir like a doctor might survey a patient, monitoring for anything else he might have overstepped or overlooked, to see which point of himself had gone too far to see if he can still grip the ledge he’d jumped off of. He sees the muscles flare in the handsome face of the bartender, even if he won’t look at him. Not that he blames Casimir for it, for finding a thing that might make it easier to explain rather than the potential judgement that might sit on the watcher’s face.
Only, Thorn won’t have judgement written on his. If anything, it’s passive and easy and calm. He wants to fix this, to restore whatever little bit of the night that hadn’t been ruined before he’d stuck his glittering fingers into it. And when the voice comes, he can tell it’s trying to be something it isn’t. It also isn’t a chastise like he’s come to expect from the bartender. If anything, it’s almost gentle in the way it’s strained.
The courtesan chews on his bottom lip as he clutches the glass in one hand, ignoring as a drop of condensation trickles over his fingers to splatter on the table. There’s some kind of deepset realization there when he tells him he’s shifting – because Thorn had come a long way to be the one to admit that it’s what he does, but it’s extremely rare to hear it come from someone else. He feels like Casimir’s holding up a mirror for him to look at, and all at once Thorn’s tension starts to bleed out of him. His shoulders lose their tightness, but he can’t quite wipe off the concern just yet. “Y’can talk to me about it? It’s not like I’m gonna go and tell anyone.” He tries for that amusement in his tone, the playfulness that had been there before but even that feels as hollow and flat as the way his lips try to twitch up into a smile.
He can let Casimir think it’s himself causing the confusing switch in the conversation, but it’s Thorn’s hands that have also shifted the tides. “I want you to have a good time. I don’t wanna make it harder for you.” Usually, he might have some snappy, charming joke there with the innuendo he’s left open, but the courtesan’s honesty pours from him like honey – so similarly to when he hadn’t even dared to get out of Casimir’s grip back at the bar but tried to prove to him that he did consider them friends and he wanted them to have a good time. What good would come from Thorn blowing up the only real face he’d known for years that was still around? That he saw daily?
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
