on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
Casimir is a great listener. Not only because he’s patient enough to let every thought leave Thorn’s mind, but also because there’s no judgement in the lines of his face. Just the quiet watchfulness of someone putting pieces together but the conclusion still ends up being yours in the end. So he doesn’t have to explain how his dad had taken it, just that it wasn’t well, and whether Casimir made it better or worse than it realistically was, he doesn’t tell. And Thorn won’t continue to explain – not yet, at least.
He thinks it’s better if he leaves those particularly sad tales in the past. But it keeps him open, easy to settle down and look back at Casimir with that soft laugh that leaves him, one that almost seems to suggest he’s probably finding a way to twist something else into a barb at himself. But he doesn’t get that far – not as that lovely, baritone voice blurts out a sentence he isn’t entirely sure he’s heard correctly.
It doesn’t flash across his face, the confusion – not with the continuation of the thought, the way Casimir’s warm hand retreats from his, covers where he assumes that scar is that he’d noticed earlier. Thorn’s hand stays where it is, fingers pressed against the hard wood of the bar counter that reflects a mild dance of the aurora above. It’s a hue that continues in each of Casimir’s stray curls, a living rainbow of purple, teal, and green that dances there like Casimir hasn’t just said one of the saddest things Thorn thinks he’s ever heard.
He isn’t sure exactly how to respond, but Casimir is talking and he honestly hasn’t realized up and until this point that the pretty and aloof bartender with too few words and dangerous eyes was actually projecting something. It wasn’t an act. He was trying to keep people away because that was easier than dealing with it. Or maybe, it was that much harder to get attached to a ghost, floating through his life. “Floatin’ so you don’t feel it?” Thorn asks, purely out of innocence – no judgement on his face, just a curious glint to those seafoam eyes of his that are bright and not at all worried about getting hurt.
Like he wouldn’t mind trying to stick his hands into the barrel of fire that was Casimir, like he wouldn’t blink when the flames licked up his arms. “Or floatin’ to keep anyone from stickin’ around?” It was either to numb himself or to keep everyone at a healthy arm’s length. Maybe both. “Or is it jus’ your way to try ‘n atone for what ya did?” The questions are too personal, too close, but Thorn's gotten this far so he's got to try what he can to understand.
He thinks it’s better if he leaves those particularly sad tales in the past. But it keeps him open, easy to settle down and look back at Casimir with that soft laugh that leaves him, one that almost seems to suggest he’s probably finding a way to twist something else into a barb at himself. But he doesn’t get that far – not as that lovely, baritone voice blurts out a sentence he isn’t entirely sure he’s heard correctly.
It doesn’t flash across his face, the confusion – not with the continuation of the thought, the way Casimir’s warm hand retreats from his, covers where he assumes that scar is that he’d noticed earlier. Thorn’s hand stays where it is, fingers pressed against the hard wood of the bar counter that reflects a mild dance of the aurora above. It’s a hue that continues in each of Casimir’s stray curls, a living rainbow of purple, teal, and green that dances there like Casimir hasn’t just said one of the saddest things Thorn thinks he’s ever heard.
He isn’t sure exactly how to respond, but Casimir is talking and he honestly hasn’t realized up and until this point that the pretty and aloof bartender with too few words and dangerous eyes was actually projecting something. It wasn’t an act. He was trying to keep people away because that was easier than dealing with it. Or maybe, it was that much harder to get attached to a ghost, floating through his life. “Floatin’ so you don’t feel it?” Thorn asks, purely out of innocence – no judgement on his face, just a curious glint to those seafoam eyes of his that are bright and not at all worried about getting hurt.
Like he wouldn’t mind trying to stick his hands into the barrel of fire that was Casimir, like he wouldn’t blink when the flames licked up his arms. “Or floatin’ to keep anyone from stickin’ around?” It was either to numb himself or to keep everyone at a healthy arm’s length. Maybe both. “Or is it jus’ your way to try ‘n atone for what ya did?” The questions are too personal, too close, but Thorn's gotten this far so he's got to try what he can to understand.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
