// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
Completely unaware of the terror he seems to constantly put the bartender through – that he’s the slow burning fire to Casimir’s icy exterior, slowly thawing him out yet not quite enough to ensure there’s no way for the attuned to simply ignite. Instead, all Thorn is aware of is how nice this is. How comfortable the bartender is. How his heartbeat thunders beneath his ribcage in a rabbiting pace that hasn’t seemed to improve despite the hours of sleep.
Thorn is slowly drawing himself closer to consciousness the longer he starts to adjust, and without a lot of movement from Casimir, it’s a slow going process. He rubs his cheek against Casimir’s chest, before he feels the soft rub of the bartender’s calloused hand on his shoulder, and for a split second Thorn’s half convinced everything of the night before was conjured – made up. That it wasn’t Casimir he was currently curled up with but someone else, that maybe he’d been more drunk than he’d thought and had somehow ended up here.
But no, this is his room. The man at his side still smells like Casimir. The hand that brushes against his arm is just as calloused as he remembers and as he lifts his head and slowly starts to blink himself awake, he can see the sharp panes of the other man’s face, the curls that rest against Thorn’s own pillows.
Now, completely sober and no longer at the brink of passing out from exhaustion, Thorn turns quite a few shades dark as heat floods his cheeks. There’s quiet excitement in the seafoam of his gaze, a quiet surprise there, too, that the man had stayed true to his word. So, the courtesan shifts to sit himself up a little more, only halfway cognizant enough to realize he’s not wearing anything but a towel and Casimir is still dressed in everything from the night before. “Hi.” He says dumbly at first, still red and still like he can’t actually believe this is happening. “You stayed.” He breathes it like he’s relieved, like perhaps it’s the best thing that has happened to him in weeks – hell, possibly years. A sound that does not often fall from the courtesan’s lips.
Thorn is slowly drawing himself closer to consciousness the longer he starts to adjust, and without a lot of movement from Casimir, it’s a slow going process. He rubs his cheek against Casimir’s chest, before he feels the soft rub of the bartender’s calloused hand on his shoulder, and for a split second Thorn’s half convinced everything of the night before was conjured – made up. That it wasn’t Casimir he was currently curled up with but someone else, that maybe he’d been more drunk than he’d thought and had somehow ended up here.
But no, this is his room. The man at his side still smells like Casimir. The hand that brushes against his arm is just as calloused as he remembers and as he lifts his head and slowly starts to blink himself awake, he can see the sharp panes of the other man’s face, the curls that rest against Thorn’s own pillows.
Now, completely sober and no longer at the brink of passing out from exhaustion, Thorn turns quite a few shades dark as heat floods his cheeks. There’s quiet excitement in the seafoam of his gaze, a quiet surprise there, too, that the man had stayed true to his word. So, the courtesan shifts to sit himself up a little more, only halfway cognizant enough to realize he’s not wearing anything but a towel and Casimir is still dressed in everything from the night before. “Hi.” He says dumbly at first, still red and still like he can’t actually believe this is happening. “You stayed.” He breathes it like he’s relieved, like perhaps it’s the best thing that has happened to him in weeks – hell, possibly years. A sound that does not often fall from the courtesan’s lips.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
