// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
He’s like a sponge, Thorn realizes slowly. That Casimir’s taking everything he says without a single ounce of judgement or feeling like he’d overstepped anything. Or, even, that it wasn’t a deal breaker. Instead, he’s met with just quiet understanding when he finally looks up to those beautiful slate eyes.
Casimir’s hand remains in his, solid and real and while there might be blood on the bartender’s hands, they don’t feel like the ones his ex had. Especially when he feels the gentle and tender stroke of his fingers along his knuckles all while he studies the bartender’s face like it might have the answer he seeks in it.
What would he do? Gods, if only Thorn knew. “Maybe.” He says, offering a quiet laugh, his head tilting to the side where his hair starts to flop onto his shoulder. “I don’t wanna give my father the satisfaction that I returned to it, even though I like it.” Spite was one thing Thorn could thrive on – and often had. “Maybe I can help design shit ‘n be a host or somethin’. Or.. I dunno, not do anything for a while.” That almost sounds nice, too, in a desert paradise.
“What would you do, if you could do anything?” He asks, turning his attention back to focus on Casimir, his head straightening out as his hand squeezes the bartender’s again in a gentle soothing touch that almost seems to say keep talking to me.
Casimir’s hand remains in his, solid and real and while there might be blood on the bartender’s hands, they don’t feel like the ones his ex had. Especially when he feels the gentle and tender stroke of his fingers along his knuckles all while he studies the bartender’s face like it might have the answer he seeks in it.
What would he do? Gods, if only Thorn knew. “Maybe.” He says, offering a quiet laugh, his head tilting to the side where his hair starts to flop onto his shoulder. “I don’t wanna give my father the satisfaction that I returned to it, even though I like it.” Spite was one thing Thorn could thrive on – and often had. “Maybe I can help design shit ‘n be a host or somethin’. Or.. I dunno, not do anything for a while.” That almost sounds nice, too, in a desert paradise.
“What would you do, if you could do anything?” He asks, turning his attention back to focus on Casimir, his head straightening out as his hand squeezes the bartender’s again in a gentle soothing touch that almost seems to say keep talking to me.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
