// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
He holds on like he’s at sea and the only thing keeping him from sliding on the suddenly unforgiving ground is the bar counter. At least, until his savior appears. A strong arm offered out, the courtesan tucks himself easily into Casimir’s side, hat crushing between his arms as he latches onto a steady point of contact. He waits for a second, as if wondering if he can trust his betraying legs, but it’s enough to give him a sense of how the world has slowly stopped spiraling out of control.
Thorn begins to walk, his arms glued to Casimir’s and his side tucked in against the bartender’s strong body – one he can remember from That Night, all heat and perfection. But this time, the alcohol makes his tongue a little looser than it had been, lets the thoughts spill from his mind in a way that he hopes doesn’t come off as too much, but honestly finds he doesn’t care just how it lands.
“Y’smell nice.” He says, tilting his head up a little to look up at Casimir. He smells like bourbon and cinnamon, leather and saffron, all wrapped up in an alluring mix of the mysterious bartender who’s voice reached him with the gravelly undertones of disuse, but was still somehow perfectly everything. He doesn’t smell like a husk of a man draped in blood, the tinge of iron that had seeped so far below the surface that it doesn’t ever wash out. It’s a smell that’s lovely, one that has him leaning a touch more into the supporting body beside him, trying not to think about how it had felt to be in his lap, how it had felt to have those lips pressed to his own.
He guides him, slowly but diligently to the hallway where the courtesans lived, and it’s right up and until they reach the barrier of his door that Thorn trips on his own two shoes, lurching forward and snagging Casimir’s arm with a surprisingly strong death grip.
Thorn begins to walk, his arms glued to Casimir’s and his side tucked in against the bartender’s strong body – one he can remember from That Night, all heat and perfection. But this time, the alcohol makes his tongue a little looser than it had been, lets the thoughts spill from his mind in a way that he hopes doesn’t come off as too much, but honestly finds he doesn’t care just how it lands.
“Y’smell nice.” He says, tilting his head up a little to look up at Casimir. He smells like bourbon and cinnamon, leather and saffron, all wrapped up in an alluring mix of the mysterious bartender who’s voice reached him with the gravelly undertones of disuse, but was still somehow perfectly everything. He doesn’t smell like a husk of a man draped in blood, the tinge of iron that had seeped so far below the surface that it doesn’t ever wash out. It’s a smell that’s lovely, one that has him leaning a touch more into the supporting body beside him, trying not to think about how it had felt to be in his lap, how it had felt to have those lips pressed to his own.
He guides him, slowly but diligently to the hallway where the courtesans lived, and it’s right up and until they reach the barrier of his door that Thorn trips on his own two shoes, lurching forward and snagging Casimir’s arm with a surprisingly strong death grip.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
