// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
He does notice the averted gaze, which feels a touch surprising to him considering what happened That Night. And maybe it should burn – maybe it does – in the recesses of Thorn’s chest cavity where he wonders if Casimir regrets it and just how much Thorn doesn’t. If anything, it only bolstered that residual feeling in his gut, the spark of a fire that started that he hasn’t been able to drown out, not even with the distance that time the past few days had spurred on.
Even now, standing as close to Cas as he is, his gaze remains down and his jaw remains clenched and Thorn is struck with a sudden impulsive thought that the courtesan can’t shake. He could be nice, let Casimir go free, pretend like he was just being nice and good and Thorn wasn’t quietly longing for the silent bartender. Like he hadn’t been constantly pining for him for years now.
He chooses the opposite, though. Traitorous in how he chooses the one that brings the fire. He’s a little more sober now after the show and the cat nap, though the exhaustion still lingers in his bones. He reaches up, long fingers, warm and still a touch damp brush along the bartender’s clenched jaw, trying to tilt his head up just a touch as the courtesan invades his space a little more. He didn’t get an answer about whether it was better or not, though Thorn doesn’t really care. Instead, he opts for a different question that is absolutely way different than the one that Casimir didn’t answer. “Stay with me?”
Even now, standing as close to Cas as he is, his gaze remains down and his jaw remains clenched and Thorn is struck with a sudden impulsive thought that the courtesan can’t shake. He could be nice, let Casimir go free, pretend like he was just being nice and good and Thorn wasn’t quietly longing for the silent bartender. Like he hadn’t been constantly pining for him for years now.
He chooses the opposite, though. Traitorous in how he chooses the one that brings the fire. He’s a little more sober now after the show and the cat nap, though the exhaustion still lingers in his bones. He reaches up, long fingers, warm and still a touch damp brush along the bartender’s clenched jaw, trying to tilt his head up just a touch as the courtesan invades his space a little more. He didn’t get an answer about whether it was better or not, though Thorn doesn’t really care. Instead, he opts for a different question that is absolutely way different than the one that Casimir didn’t answer. “Stay with me?”
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
