// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
The reciprocation is precisely the boon Thorn hopes it is. The way he can stick his hands into Casimir and crack him open with the confidence he can hold whatever keeps him together. He doesn’t know the depth of it, obviously, Casimir rarely talked let alone his past. But Thorn has always considered himself a mender, a shelf that he can hold and harbor whatever heaviness weighs on those strong, beautiful shoulders.
There’s no answer of how much Thorn had missed him, nor any indication verbally that the bartender had missed him too. But Thorn can tell physically that the other man had, the way he’d offered to help him to his room, the way he’d told him to go and shower, the way he remained even when he had ample opportunity to leave. And here Thorn is, before Casimir, still dripping with water and hardly any of his usual flair and pomp, and still the bartender stays.
He feels Cas freeze before his handsome, lovely voice reaches his pierced ears. “Yeah.” Thorn says in the short distance between them, all confidence and assurance. “Yeah, m’sure.” Even if today was just sitting there, held and holding by hands that weren’t really in it for anything else or paying for the opportunity to. It’s something he hadn’t known he’d missed until Cas did it That Night. And like a wound in the mouth, Thorn can’t stop fucking with it to remind himself it’s there.
The hand that wraps around his middle above the rim of the towel is a delicious sear, the kind that has him all but melting as he readjusts his arms, looping them around Casimir’s neck to keep him close, pulling back in the comfort of his multitude of messy blankets. “I think I’ve been sure for a while now.” The admission comes from a place where Thorn realizes he might still be a bit drunk, flushing immediately after it slips past his lips but trying desperately to bypass it with the seal of another greedy kiss.
There’s no answer of how much Thorn had missed him, nor any indication verbally that the bartender had missed him too. But Thorn can tell physically that the other man had, the way he’d offered to help him to his room, the way he’d told him to go and shower, the way he remained even when he had ample opportunity to leave. And here Thorn is, before Casimir, still dripping with water and hardly any of his usual flair and pomp, and still the bartender stays.
He feels Cas freeze before his handsome, lovely voice reaches his pierced ears. “Yeah.” Thorn says in the short distance between them, all confidence and assurance. “Yeah, m’sure.” Even if today was just sitting there, held and holding by hands that weren’t really in it for anything else or paying for the opportunity to. It’s something he hadn’t known he’d missed until Cas did it That Night. And like a wound in the mouth, Thorn can’t stop fucking with it to remind himself it’s there.
The hand that wraps around his middle above the rim of the towel is a delicious sear, the kind that has him all but melting as he readjusts his arms, looping them around Casimir’s neck to keep him close, pulling back in the comfort of his multitude of messy blankets. “I think I’ve been sure for a while now.” The admission comes from a place where Thorn realizes he might still be a bit drunk, flushing immediately after it slips past his lips but trying desperately to bypass it with the seal of another greedy kiss.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
