on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
It was probably a poor choice of words – to talk through it when he’s gotten the most amount of vocal commentary this evening than he had in years despite his best attempts. And all he has for it is a repeated sentence, the fact that it wasn’t him even when it still kind of felt like it was. Things would have been fine had he not pushed the bartender into joining him here, if he’d let him stay in the lair of the House of Midnight, away from too many people with too little to do, either seeking food, help, or a bed not having to share it alone.
Thorn wonders silently whether or not Casimir wished for nights like those, where he didn’t have to spend it in the quiet recesses of the House of Midnight with only his thoughts to keep him company. But, much like everything else, Thorn doesn’t know much about the bartender. He doesn’t know whether he’s got pets or fancies anything in particular, what his favorite tune played at the House of Midnight is, what his favorite color might be.
But he takes the answer for face value, watching as Cas’ hand rakes through those tight curls, and Thorn nods his answer enough to loosen one of the strands of dark hair until it falls into his face. “M’kay.” He hums, mouth opening to say something else in a mirrored image of Casimir not too long ago – because the waiter brings their food, steaming and hot and sets it in front of them, and Thorn shifts gears to thank the waiter for the food.
Picking up his fork, he prods a little at the pesto gnocchi as if deep in thought. The fork is sat down, Thorn reaching out to the cheese bread in the middle to tear off a strip for himself and one for Casimir that he sets on his plate with a return of those casual smiles. “S’good for dippin’ into the sauce.” He says, showing the bartender as he takes his own strip and dips it into the pastel green sauce and promptly bites into it with relief to have something to do and food for his stomach that’s so far only had liquor and water.
Thorn wonders silently whether or not Casimir wished for nights like those, where he didn’t have to spend it in the quiet recesses of the House of Midnight with only his thoughts to keep him company. But, much like everything else, Thorn doesn’t know much about the bartender. He doesn’t know whether he’s got pets or fancies anything in particular, what his favorite tune played at the House of Midnight is, what his favorite color might be.
But he takes the answer for face value, watching as Cas’ hand rakes through those tight curls, and Thorn nods his answer enough to loosen one of the strands of dark hair until it falls into his face. “M’kay.” He hums, mouth opening to say something else in a mirrored image of Casimir not too long ago – because the waiter brings their food, steaming and hot and sets it in front of them, and Thorn shifts gears to thank the waiter for the food.
Picking up his fork, he prods a little at the pesto gnocchi as if deep in thought. The fork is sat down, Thorn reaching out to the cheese bread in the middle to tear off a strip for himself and one for Casimir that he sets on his plate with a return of those casual smiles. “S’good for dippin’ into the sauce.” He says, showing the bartender as he takes his own strip and dips it into the pastel green sauce and promptly bites into it with relief to have something to do and food for his stomach that’s so far only had liquor and water.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
