on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
Thorn has been an open book ever since he was young. Always forced by his father to do something, following the family’s footsteps in becoming one of the Mercers that built homes in Halo, that went out of their way to fix things. It’s why he’d gotten into architecture, why he’d wanted to strive for it, until he was finally out on his own where he had to make his own decisions.
And those decisions only proved to him that he liked stories more than he liked building. He wanted to hear the way people’s lives were influenced by a single moment, the real heart of it all rather than design the buildings that those memories were made in. It’s half of the reason he’d become a courtesan – realizing at the end of the day that he could share a part of himself and receive those stories and themes, of how those he spent time with could live without the outside expectations.
It often made people more nostalgic – sometimes in good ways, sometimes in some bad ways. But it was always Thorn’s job to try and make the pain feel better. It was one of the many masks he wore for the sake of getting the story he always wanted. So as he draws quiet from his own nostalgia, his gaze facing the sky and taking the stars and the moon in, he feels the way it starts to change. The air smells saltier, warmer, more humid than King’s End has to offer. But the sky changes too, shifting toward something lighter, a hue of dark blue and purple crowding out the light of the stars, such that only the strongest, biggest ones could be visible.
His gaze drops down to Casimir as he answers – verbally – and his brows pinch together a fraction as he tries to figure out how to respond to that. He doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want him to have to explain why he doesn’t miss it. Because the answer is spelled out in those two words. Casimir had experienced it. He didn’t want to experience it again. “S’not for everyone.” He agrees with a light hum, straightening up from the bar where he’d laid against it. He catches sight of the blood that begins to pool at the base of Casimir’s seat, but he doesn’t let any tells give away the concern suddenly filtering through the courtesan’s body.
Instead, he subtly shifts the room again, covering up the dark and dead, the ghosts in the closet to completely shift the scene above them and below them into something else. Snow crunches beneath the bar, beneath Casimir’s seat – not cold, but sharp. The way that the chill of snow made every breath noticeable rather than the hug of sticky air. Above them, the stars have vanished completely again, but in their place a vibrant rainbow spreads its fingers, dancing across the sky in the aurora lights that often adorned Halo’s night skies. “I used t’sit in the snow until I couldn’t feel my toes or my fingers jus’ to watch this.”
And those decisions only proved to him that he liked stories more than he liked building. He wanted to hear the way people’s lives were influenced by a single moment, the real heart of it all rather than design the buildings that those memories were made in. It’s half of the reason he’d become a courtesan – realizing at the end of the day that he could share a part of himself and receive those stories and themes, of how those he spent time with could live without the outside expectations.
It often made people more nostalgic – sometimes in good ways, sometimes in some bad ways. But it was always Thorn’s job to try and make the pain feel better. It was one of the many masks he wore for the sake of getting the story he always wanted. So as he draws quiet from his own nostalgia, his gaze facing the sky and taking the stars and the moon in, he feels the way it starts to change. The air smells saltier, warmer, more humid than King’s End has to offer. But the sky changes too, shifting toward something lighter, a hue of dark blue and purple crowding out the light of the stars, such that only the strongest, biggest ones could be visible.
His gaze drops down to Casimir as he answers – verbally – and his brows pinch together a fraction as he tries to figure out how to respond to that. He doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want him to have to explain why he doesn’t miss it. Because the answer is spelled out in those two words. Casimir had experienced it. He didn’t want to experience it again. “S’not for everyone.” He agrees with a light hum, straightening up from the bar where he’d laid against it. He catches sight of the blood that begins to pool at the base of Casimir’s seat, but he doesn’t let any tells give away the concern suddenly filtering through the courtesan’s body.
Instead, he subtly shifts the room again, covering up the dark and dead, the ghosts in the closet to completely shift the scene above them and below them into something else. Snow crunches beneath the bar, beneath Casimir’s seat – not cold, but sharp. The way that the chill of snow made every breath noticeable rather than the hug of sticky air. Above them, the stars have vanished completely again, but in their place a vibrant rainbow spreads its fingers, dancing across the sky in the aurora lights that often adorned Halo’s night skies. “I used t’sit in the snow until I couldn’t feel my toes or my fingers jus’ to watch this.”
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
