on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
It’s a good thing they’re in a shifting room, then, because here Thorn’s last care about health and safety has flown out the window. Besides, it’s not like he couldn’t just imagine more bad spoons to appear anyway when he goes to make the next one. But for now, he’s smug in a way that suggests the drink tastes pretty good for someone that’s only watched them get put together. It’s a little too sweet, courtesy of Thorn’s own preferences, but the old fashioned drink sits waiting like an invitation while Thorn reaps the spoils of what he’s seen as his tongue drags against the metal spoon.
He watches as Casimir lifts the glass in a mock toast, Thorn raising the bar spoon with a flourish of his wrist and a little help from his telekinesis magic to keep it from falling as he spins it. But he watches almost a touch too intensely as his work is judged, and with rapt apprehension his shoulders nearly slump with the nod of acknowledgement.
It’s good enough for him. His facade drops to let his grin spread across his face, something warm and inviting and amused as the drink is slid back toward him and he returns to the languid grace he’d had before, bending to rest an elbow on the bar while the other hand braces him. He takes the glass once the dull echo of the plink has left it, lifting it up to his lips to take a sip.
It really isn’t too bad, and it’s just enough to spur the alcohol again from its slumber in his gut, but it takes a bit before it starts to settle in. “Mm, not bad. I know a guy who does it better, though.” He sets the glass down and shifts his weight, debating for a second whether he wanted to try his luck again and sit on the bar. He doesn’t, in the end, but he does push himself up to snag the bag of food to divvy it out again, setting the takeout box of Casimir’s before him as he snags his own and the box of cheese bread. “Eat, before it gets cold.” He says, pointing his fork toward the other man in a playful little threat.
He watches as Casimir lifts the glass in a mock toast, Thorn raising the bar spoon with a flourish of his wrist and a little help from his telekinesis magic to keep it from falling as he spins it. But he watches almost a touch too intensely as his work is judged, and with rapt apprehension his shoulders nearly slump with the nod of acknowledgement.
It’s good enough for him. His facade drops to let his grin spread across his face, something warm and inviting and amused as the drink is slid back toward him and he returns to the languid grace he’d had before, bending to rest an elbow on the bar while the other hand braces him. He takes the glass once the dull echo of the plink has left it, lifting it up to his lips to take a sip.
It really isn’t too bad, and it’s just enough to spur the alcohol again from its slumber in his gut, but it takes a bit before it starts to settle in. “Mm, not bad. I know a guy who does it better, though.” He sets the glass down and shifts his weight, debating for a second whether he wanted to try his luck again and sit on the bar. He doesn’t, in the end, but he does push himself up to snag the bag of food to divvy it out again, setting the takeout box of Casimir’s before him as he snags his own and the box of cheese bread. “Eat, before it gets cold.” He says, pointing his fork toward the other man in a playful little threat.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
