// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
It was such unfortunate timing that the herding adventure had to happen the next day from That Night. He hasn’t wanted to vanish on Casimir the way he had, but he’d also found himself relieved to an extent that he didn’t have to face the consequences of it so quickly after it had occurred.
It’s been days by the time the courtesan returns to the House. He isn’t dressed in his sheer and nice clothing, he isn’t wearing his easy smiles and bright eyes. He wears a coat of exhaustion, made of wool that hangs along his shoulders, a hat that’s absolutely fucked up his hair in the process, dark jeans that had given him room to move and not get stuck to things like his leather pants would have.
A bag hangs from his shoulders with the items from the trip, dark smudges on his cheeks because he hasn’t had a chance to shower yet. It calls to him, though, the siren song of his bed as opposed to the hard ground of the tents, the shower that promises warmth and heat to chase the bone deep cold away.
But he doesn’t head there first, sure that it’s late enough (what is time, anyway?) that he might be able to miss a specific, still handsome bartender. He doesn't even care to look as he makes his way through the entry, guided on familiar feet to the bar to the space that’s open, a yawning divide between the ends of the bar. He should know or at least assume there’s something fucky with it, but he’s too tired to care. Instead, the bag thunks underneath the edge of the bar by the stool and the courtesan hops up onto the seat, shrugging aimlessly out of his coat to let it pool down by his boots and bag. It’s a rather modest shirt underneath, form fitting and buttons up with designs of little cactuses intermixed in the light green fabric. But Thorn pays it all little mind as he starts to take his hat off.
“Can I get an’ old fashioned or somethin’? Extra strong?” He asks, expecting it to be one of the other bartenders that harbored far less snark. But as the courtesan sets the hat down next to him on the bar and his gaze flits up, they widen with surprise. They’re not surrounded in the kohl liner of before, the sparkle of his attire and energy decidedly gone, but his lips do quirk into a small smile.
Relief, in a way. “Nice seein’ you again.” He says rather than what comes to mind — I’m sorry I drove you away and just vanished right after.
It’s been days by the time the courtesan returns to the House. He isn’t dressed in his sheer and nice clothing, he isn’t wearing his easy smiles and bright eyes. He wears a coat of exhaustion, made of wool that hangs along his shoulders, a hat that’s absolutely fucked up his hair in the process, dark jeans that had given him room to move and not get stuck to things like his leather pants would have.
A bag hangs from his shoulders with the items from the trip, dark smudges on his cheeks because he hasn’t had a chance to shower yet. It calls to him, though, the siren song of his bed as opposed to the hard ground of the tents, the shower that promises warmth and heat to chase the bone deep cold away.
But he doesn’t head there first, sure that it’s late enough (what is time, anyway?) that he might be able to miss a specific, still handsome bartender. He doesn't even care to look as he makes his way through the entry, guided on familiar feet to the bar to the space that’s open, a yawning divide between the ends of the bar. He should know or at least assume there’s something fucky with it, but he’s too tired to care. Instead, the bag thunks underneath the edge of the bar by the stool and the courtesan hops up onto the seat, shrugging aimlessly out of his coat to let it pool down by his boots and bag. It’s a rather modest shirt underneath, form fitting and buttons up with designs of little cactuses intermixed in the light green fabric. But Thorn pays it all little mind as he starts to take his hat off.
“Can I get an’ old fashioned or somethin’? Extra strong?” He asks, expecting it to be one of the other bartenders that harbored far less snark. But as the courtesan sets the hat down next to him on the bar and his gaze flits up, they widen with surprise. They’re not surrounded in the kohl liner of before, the sparkle of his attire and energy decidedly gone, but his lips do quirk into a small smile.
Relief, in a way. “Nice seein’ you again.” He says rather than what comes to mind — I’m sorry I drove you away and just vanished right after.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
