on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
Everything starts to shift, toward where Thorn can recall being young and stupid and only wanting to please his family and wrestling with those thoughts as he remembers laying back in the snow, soaking through his wool coats until he felt more like a pretty popsicle. He didn’t have tattoos back then, nor the many piercings in his ears, nor the fun fashion sense he has now. All he’d had was wild, messy hair, siblings, and a life he thought he could fit himself into as he laid there freezing slowly to death.
It didn’t have the same punch this time around, namely because he wasn’t physically in Halo – taking the occasional trip back home to check on his siblings and his mom, uncaring what happened to his father. But the lights? The aurora was something Thorn would always wait to see. It’s the least he can do to share them now, captivating in their own right. He doesn’t even notice the way Casimir’s gaze flicks toward him, captivated as he is by a sight he’s seen a hundred times.
He’s brought out of it by the gentle brush of Casimir’s hand against his ringed fingers, dragging the courtesan back into reality with a flush that sparks, immediately flooding his cheeks and neck in hues of red and pink. That boyish smile lingers on Thorn’s face as he looks down to their hands and takes a slow and deep breath and shifts his hand enough so that their hands can touch – not quite intertwined, but enough that he can stretch his pinky out to gently stroke along the other man’s skin.
“My family’s the Mercer’s. We made houses ‘n stuff in Halo, so when I was growin’ up and was interested in architecture, they were.. really excited about it. But I was the oldest so I was supposed t’take the family business up so I wanted to go an’ learn about all kinds of ways people built shit.” He pauses, huffing a soft little laugh. “’Til I reached Torchline. Then I kinda enjoyed doin’ this more than the architecture.” His slender shoulders shrug, rippling the sheer shirt with the movement, reflecting a dance of the aurora above that changes the hues of the silver cloth, like he’s wearing the aurora on his shoulders. “Dad didn’t take it well.” His nose wrinkles, eyes focusing on Casimir’s hand before he sucks in a deep breath, letting it roll out of him along with the anger and hurt and frustration of the argument that had ensued. “Still doesn’t. But I go an’ check on my ma and sibling’s every year anyway.” His head tilts slightly, that flush still lingering on his cheeks.
He’s happy to share this part of his story, even if parts of it weren’t good, so when he lifts his head to look toward the handsome bartender’s face, it lingers with that ease of conversation even if the aurora was reflecting all around them and Thorn’s face and neck was still three shades darker than it usually was. “Gotta remind myself sometimes jus’ how long it takes standin’ out in the cold ‘fore ya lose a toe.” A warm and soft laugh leaves him, gentle and wholly at his own expense.
It didn’t have the same punch this time around, namely because he wasn’t physically in Halo – taking the occasional trip back home to check on his siblings and his mom, uncaring what happened to his father. But the lights? The aurora was something Thorn would always wait to see. It’s the least he can do to share them now, captivating in their own right. He doesn’t even notice the way Casimir’s gaze flicks toward him, captivated as he is by a sight he’s seen a hundred times.
He’s brought out of it by the gentle brush of Casimir’s hand against his ringed fingers, dragging the courtesan back into reality with a flush that sparks, immediately flooding his cheeks and neck in hues of red and pink. That boyish smile lingers on Thorn’s face as he looks down to their hands and takes a slow and deep breath and shifts his hand enough so that their hands can touch – not quite intertwined, but enough that he can stretch his pinky out to gently stroke along the other man’s skin.
“My family’s the Mercer’s. We made houses ‘n stuff in Halo, so when I was growin’ up and was interested in architecture, they were.. really excited about it. But I was the oldest so I was supposed t’take the family business up so I wanted to go an’ learn about all kinds of ways people built shit.” He pauses, huffing a soft little laugh. “’Til I reached Torchline. Then I kinda enjoyed doin’ this more than the architecture.” His slender shoulders shrug, rippling the sheer shirt with the movement, reflecting a dance of the aurora above that changes the hues of the silver cloth, like he’s wearing the aurora on his shoulders. “Dad didn’t take it well.” His nose wrinkles, eyes focusing on Casimir’s hand before he sucks in a deep breath, letting it roll out of him along with the anger and hurt and frustration of the argument that had ensued. “Still doesn’t. But I go an’ check on my ma and sibling’s every year anyway.” His head tilts slightly, that flush still lingering on his cheeks.
He’s happy to share this part of his story, even if parts of it weren’t good, so when he lifts his head to look toward the handsome bartender’s face, it lingers with that ease of conversation even if the aurora was reflecting all around them and Thorn’s face and neck was still three shades darker than it usually was. “Gotta remind myself sometimes jus’ how long it takes standin’ out in the cold ‘fore ya lose a toe.” A warm and soft laugh leaves him, gentle and wholly at his own expense.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
