on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
It brings a sweet relief the second the pesto-tinged bread touches his tongue. Chewing it softly and relaxing a bit further once he swallows it down, it’s a promise of more food that brings forth his appetite that has been silenced for the majority of the day. He sets the bread back down in the pool of pesto, plucking up his fork while he feels the intense stare Casimir has on his face, like he’s being studied. He’s not entirely sure why, but he tries to be as normal as can be about it, taking a bite of the potato pasta and chews it a little slower.
He thinks everything is going fine, like the boundary he crossed hours ago isn’t going to come kick him in the face again, but before that thought can even settle he hears the creak of the leather seat of the booth. His eyes shoot up, brows pinching in confusion, only to be met with the back of the booth to face him rather than the charming, quiet and stubbornly handsome face that had been staring back.
Instead, he sees the bartender’s back as he retreats as though he’s aimed for the door. And for a second, Thorn thinks he’s blown it all up. That he wouldn’t be able to face the bar again and see him and watch him work and play this will he, won’t he game that Thorn’s become so attached to. He’s sliding off the seat of the booth before he knows it, really, swallowing down his bite and snags their jackets before he’s chasing after Cas. It makes it so he doesn’t reach him until the bartender’s reached the door, and with a passing sound of can we get ‘em to go, actually? called over his shoulder to the terrified waiter, Thorn finally reaches him when the bartender’s already opened the door.
And now, the courtesan has two choices. He can either make a scene and try to tug him back in, but knowing what he thinks he knows, Thorn is confident it would ruin everything he’s tried to do tonight. So instead, the shorter, thinner, less muscular man barrels into Casimir’s back, bolstered by the makeshift pillow of their jackets in front of him. He’s so much stronger and harder than Thorn’s anticipating, but he does his best to try and push him toward the corner of the entrance in the quiet street, before his jeweled hands reach to try and catch him and keep him from running. “They’re wrappin’ it up for us. We can eat somewhere quieter?” Comes the suggestion, breathless from his attempt at pushing a man that felt like he was made out of solid steel. And when he looks up at Casimir’s face, there’s something almost helpless in his gaze that streaks through, unintentional and raw. “Please?” Just let me spend a day with you.
The plea comes voluntary, unplanned. And it was something that Thorn very rarely said with meaning unless it was asked of him. He wonders if Casimir would know the difference.
He thinks everything is going fine, like the boundary he crossed hours ago isn’t going to come kick him in the face again, but before that thought can even settle he hears the creak of the leather seat of the booth. His eyes shoot up, brows pinching in confusion, only to be met with the back of the booth to face him rather than the charming, quiet and stubbornly handsome face that had been staring back.
Instead, he sees the bartender’s back as he retreats as though he’s aimed for the door. And for a second, Thorn thinks he’s blown it all up. That he wouldn’t be able to face the bar again and see him and watch him work and play this will he, won’t he game that Thorn’s become so attached to. He’s sliding off the seat of the booth before he knows it, really, swallowing down his bite and snags their jackets before he’s chasing after Cas. It makes it so he doesn’t reach him until the bartender’s reached the door, and with a passing sound of can we get ‘em to go, actually? called over his shoulder to the terrified waiter, Thorn finally reaches him when the bartender’s already opened the door.
And now, the courtesan has two choices. He can either make a scene and try to tug him back in, but knowing what he thinks he knows, Thorn is confident it would ruin everything he’s tried to do tonight. So instead, the shorter, thinner, less muscular man barrels into Casimir’s back, bolstered by the makeshift pillow of their jackets in front of him. He’s so much stronger and harder than Thorn’s anticipating, but he does his best to try and push him toward the corner of the entrance in the quiet street, before his jeweled hands reach to try and catch him and keep him from running. “They’re wrappin’ it up for us. We can eat somewhere quieter?” Comes the suggestion, breathless from his attempt at pushing a man that felt like he was made out of solid steel. And when he looks up at Casimir’s face, there’s something almost helpless in his gaze that streaks through, unintentional and raw. “Please?” Just let me spend a day with you.
The plea comes voluntary, unplanned. And it was something that Thorn very rarely said with meaning unless it was asked of him. He wonders if Casimir would know the difference.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
