bless the young and rich

i fell in love with a war

He doesn't quite flinch, but something flickers across his face nonetheless. An unreadable grimace of the lips, something dark flashing through his eyes. His eyes trace Thorn's curved, amused gin like a razor traces a throat. The courtesan's arms are still crossed across his chest but the curve of them are more languid, less stubborn, and the light catches on the fabric of his shirt to illuminate the swathe of skin underneath. Casimir realizes, perhaps with a delayed start, that Thorn is mocking him. Not in the way he usually does, easy and light and teasing, but digging a dagger into a weak spot Casimir hadn't done a good enough job of guarding. 

Casimir is not one quick to anger. He can't be, in this job, and his fighter's past taught him to assess any threat with a measured, careful eye before springing into action. But, as he looks into Thorn's grinning face, eyes marked with something strange and sparkling, tossing the word friend like he knows it means something to Casimir, the slow kindling begins to build. If the day had been different, if the energy built was less strained and so utterly out of their usual routine, he would've kept his usual demeanor, dismissing Thorn with a scoff and a minute shake of his head.

Almost faster than his build would give him credit for, Casimir buries his strong hands in in Thorn's collar and presses him up against the bar, trapping his hips in the strong curve of his legs. The fabric of his sheer shirt is slippery and smooth under his hands but Casimir grips them like they're boxer's wraps, feeling the way his fingernails press into his palm through the thin fabric. 

"Yeah. Right," He growls, low and under his breath, dangerous and threatening. Gods, to think he was almost believing this. And then, even lower, his voice gravel and strained, "I don't take kindly to being made fun of."

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

There are many things that happen the second that Casimir closes that distance. Thorn, too drunk to see the signs that his words might have an effect as something other than the honesty he’s said them with – too much of an actor to be able to lift the mask to prove it. Instead, moving faster than he’d ever imagined (wondering, perhaps, if it’s one of the bartender’s shifts that allowed him to move this swiftly, debating between the glimmer of the griffin he’s seen or the hideous wine spider).

He bets it’s the spider.

Luckily, the hand that clasps his collar is warm and not a terrifying harry leg with little toes on the end to keep him in place, and the face he looks up at as the wind slips from his lungs in a small gush of air is blessedly absent of more than two eyes. So it leaves him to selfishly relish in the fact that finally, finally, Thorn has managed to get Casimir’s hands on him.

And he has to still his racing heartbeat and the flush that pours through his cheeks and the tips of his ears and down his neck and the grin that grows a little more fiendish as he sucks in a breath and has to think so fucking hard about what exactly Casimir said when he’s pinned him up against the bar, all danger and threat and delightful promise.

He manages to cool the tempo of his heart so that it doesn’t continue to drown out Casimir’s voice, but he has managed to get his arms free from being pinned to his chest before he’d been pressed up against the bar. The glittering jeweled fingers settle on the warm, hardened muscle of the bartender’s forearms, a gentler touch.

Where Casimir is a brazier of flame, Thorn is a stunning flower. Where the bartender’s fire licks at those that dare to dip their fingers in, Thorn’s is a product of sitting too close and getting caught on his sharp edges.

“I meant it.” He says, chin tilting up as he sucks in another breath and his throat bobs, making the glittering choker sparkle that much more. “Why the fuck would I make fun of ya?” He pauses to let his voice drop, to bear his seafoam gaze into the hardened ones of the man that has him pinned. “That.. back ‘n forth we do? We’ve been doin’? S’like the best part of m’days. So yeah I’m gonna be annoyin’ an’ ask if ya wanna eat with me one time in case y'never see me again.” He tilts his head, doing absolutely nothing to get out of the grip that Casimir has on him, and the very one that Thorn has on him feels starkly gentle and soft in comparison, like he’s clinging to this first touch like a life jacket in a choppy sea.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

i fell in love with a war

The gentle touch of Thorn's hands burn against Casimir's forearm, bright and vivid and much too painful for the lack of pressure Thorn really puts on there. They burn where they press, and Casimir swears if he looks down he'll see sizzled skin and bright handprints ensconcing his arms. Still, though the touch sears and makes Casimir want to rip himself away, they're not the touch of a guilty man trying to free himself from retribution. The touch matches his words, true and underlaid with a thread of genuineness Casimir has never heard from the man. 

The bartender had spent years seeing Thorn perform, watching from his perpetual station at the bar, an audience to Thorn's shows. The courtier dazzles and obscures, drawing in customers with honey-soaked sweet nothings that draw people in like flies, always conjuring the perfect words like magic spells. Always, no matter what, there's a layer of falseness to what he does, though so thin that only the discerning eye can see the acting behind the batted eyelashes. Casimir has a very discerning eye, and the practice in watching Thorn's fluttering eyes, his silver tongue, his moving, gentle fingers. 

His eyes flicker up and down again, Thorn's touch sending heat shooting from his forearms like roots from a tree, the feeling burrowing deep into the burn of the back of his throat. Why isn't the man struggling to get out of Casimir's hold? A guilty man would be fighting, not holding on like one trying to tame a wild beast, and it's in that moment Casimir realizes Thorn hasn't been projecting any of his tells that indicate to an audience he's performing. 

The pressure on his forearms is growing painful now, though Thorn's hands haven't tightened at all, and he grits his teeth against it, willing it away. He can feel their chests moving in careful synchronization, his own pressing firm and harsh again Thorn's smaller. It is in this moment that Casimir realizes he cannot remember the last time he was touched gently, other than fleeting moments where fingers meet while passing a drink. His body is wound tight, so tight, a set of rusted cogs ready to snap and-- 

Abruptly, he lets go of his temporary prisoner, wresting his arms away and backing up from the spot where he pinned him on the bar. He catches himself so it hopefully looks more graceful than fleeing, but his arms retreat like he had just touched them on a furnace. Shoulders set in defense like they're still waiting for an attack, Casimir keeps his eyes on Thorn. 

"Fine," He manages through gritted teeth, but to precisely what part of Thorn's words, he leaves it unsaid.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

He doesn’t know the power in his hands – not in the way that it causes a reaction within Casimir. If anything, Thorn thinks he’s gentle, accommodating, helpful. He doesn’t know the invisible brands his hands leave behind, even if there’s a simultaneous matching one coating Thorn’s frame but for vastly different reasons.

The courtesan isn’t touch starved, not physically, but mentally at times the abandoned finds himself relatively lonely. He can’t say it surprises him, with Colt being in the desert now and the rest of the faces he typically saw often had to pay to see him. Sure, he bantered with the other courtesans and their Archon on occasion, but it was absolutely nothing like what’s currently blooming being under Casimir’s magnifying glass.

This close, feeling his chest rise and fall against his own only keeps the flush deeper on his face and his neck, burning hotter and more visible with the help of the alcohol. His face is open, no mask or acting to be seen, just the truth in his words that drip like a salve for the brands he’s leaving on the bartender’s arms.

He’s suddenly let go and he finds himself sagging back against the bar a little more, taking a few deep breaths to try and regulate the heat in his body. Elbows braced behind him on the wood of the bar, chin dropping a touch to get a better view of Casimir as he retreats. He misses any less than graceful catching, but it’s bolstered by this standoff that ends with a win when he says the one thing the courtesan is so badly hoping for.

’Fine.’ All at once, despite the grit teeth of the other man, Thorn’s face breaks into something vibrant and excited, allowing him to pick himself up to stand a little straighter. He wants to start his snark, to ask if it was so hard to agree, but there’s something fragile between them that he isn’t sure would break if he started now. So he keeps the peace, keeps the grin on his face as he straightens out his sheer, silken shirt and readjusts some of the rings on his fingers and resets the choker that had slipped slightly in the abrupt pin. “Great. There’s a nice pasta place in New Haven that jus’ opened, or we could do somethin’ here if ya didn’t wanna go too far?”

He asks his questions as he starts to slip back to the right side of the bar, taking the chair he’d had before and leans across the whole bar, snagging the glass of water to down it so he can get a little more sober before they go and eat, and all the while he looks up at Casimir with raised brows – conceding to whichever choice he wanted.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

i fell in love with a war

Casimir watches Thorn shake himself off and reset the fine set of his clothes, removing all traces of the confrontation from his affect. His hands are stinging from how tightly he clenched them and his forearms still buzz from the remnants of heat, soemthing under his skin itching and prickling. The sparkling choker on the courtesan’s neck moves back to how it was before, his throat bobbing under his breathing. His stays the same as it was under Casimir’s hold, the curve of it slightly devilish where it shines on a handsome, open face.

There’s a part of him that feels bad for putting his hands on Thorn that way, like he was an unruly customer or someone on the other half of a brawl, especially once the misunderstanding was made clear and the egg was very firmly on Casimir’s face. A different part of him, flaming and flaring, something somehow both cold and hot, wanting and reviling, wants the heat of that gentle touch on his forearms again. There’s guilt, but no regret.

With Thorn on the proper side of the bar, not everything is restored to the world but Casimir can allow himself to breathe normally again. The curve of his shoulders slump slightly, and without thinking, his fingers move to unbutton the tight cuffs of the shirt circling his wrists and folds the fabric of his sleeves up so they rest just under his elbow. It’s a familiar movement, one he’s done hundreds of times when he grows just a little too warm, but he as he realizes he does it, he feels oddly exposed. Now, too aware of the movement, he doesn’t push them back down, but instead looks staunchly ahead like nothing had happened and Thorn hadn’t somehow reached into his chest and twisted.

At Thorn’s presented choices, he levels a flat stare, crossing his arms across his chest. Does Thorn think the bartender was going to choose? He allows his silence to fill the shape of an answer.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

He really should know better than to expect Casimir to answer. But for now, the courtesan is thoroughly distracted on the other side of the bar with the not-too-long-ago memory of the way it had felt to be pressed against the bar that way, the heat that soaked through his body in a way that simultaneously craved further closeness and felt inherently dangerous. Instead of saying any of those things, though, Thorn instead chooses to watch quietly as he sets the glass down he’d sipped from, eyes scanning over the newly bared forearms for the first time tonight and sees the muscle that twitches with the movement as Cas folds his arms across his chest.

His seafoam gaze flits up to catch the silent and flat stare, making the courtesan only shift a little closer across the bar, returning to his liquid grace like a cat, draping across the bar toward Casimir like a siren song. “I was thinkin’ pasta too!” He says with a gasp of excitement, brightening up. He returns to that playful charade, only this time Thorn winks one of his kohl-lined eyes toward the bartender.

Taking his gaze away from Casimir for a split second, he glances up toward the clock to see how much time had passed, and while it hasn’t been quite enough yet to steal the bartender away, it is close enough that he can see the other, less fun bartender start to get on shift. While this other bartender wasn’t as fun, he’s also a quiet and watchful type. But unlike Casimir, the other bartender usually lets Thorn get away with anything he wants.

Knowing this, he puts on his most charming smile, greeting him. “Hey! D’ya think it’d be okay if Casimir left his shift a few minutes early?” There’s that sparkling glint to his gaze again, one that the other bartender picks up on and glances over at Casimir with a barely hidden there smile of amusement. ’Sure, nobody’s going to mind.’ And with that answer, the strings of familiarity of this game in this place are sliced through.

Thorn slips out of the stool to stand and thank the bartender, before his glittering gaze flits to Casimir again, eager and barely hidden excitement. “C’mon, we gotta get t’the sign post before it gets colder.” With a surprising amount of energy, Thorn still sways slightly as he moves to the coat rack to snag his leather jacket – a sleek black biker-type of cut, well-worn and cherished – and slips it on, adjusting his shirt beneath it. Brushing his hair back and out of his face, Thorn glances over his shoulder to make sure Casimir is coming.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

i fell in love with a war

Casimir changes the heat of his glare to move from Thorn’s grinning face to that of the betraying, conniving bartender. Casimir never liked the man, always had a hunch he was a conniving backstabbing bastard and this was irrefutable proof his hunches were correct. If looks could kill, Casimir would be the only bartender left at the House of Midnight, starting with the demise of the man who let him off his shift early with a too-knowing grin and an evil glimmer in his eye.

Thorn practically skips through the bar to grab his coat, seemingly rejuvenated with a new energy that does not betray the afternoon of drinking he’s done. The low light catches his sparkling outfit, as it’s no doubt meant to, and the man looks nearly radiant in the evening glimmer and candlelight. His breath catches in his chest, the reality of the situation slamming into him, and Casimir remembers that it’s not too late to run away. He could still book it, staying in the familiar walls of the bar forever like he planned when he ran away to this cursed place. But Thorn looks at him so expectantly, glancing over his shoulder with toothy grin, practically halfway out the door, and Casimir sighs while the trap closes around his leg.

He takes his sweet, languid time leaving the bar, his feet slow as they carry him towards the door. His own coat, a long grey wool thing that slims his broad shoulders into something handsome rather than brutish, sits innocently on the coatrack. Sliding his arms into the sleeves, he wonders if he can fake a heart attack. Or a broken leg. There’s still a way out of this, definitely.

The breach of the door sits in front of him, the line between everything normal and steady, and the wild untamed unknown. He doesn’t look at Thorn as he crosses the threshold, setting his cool eyes firmly in front of him like a hunting dog who just smelled prey. The wind slams into him, chilly and almost frigid in its ferocity, and he flips his collar against it, shoving his shaking hands deep into pockets. His eyes flicker to Thorn by pure coincidence; he’s definitely not checking to see if he’s okay in that thin, sheer outfit of his.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The other bartender only greets Casimir with a shrug and a smile, but it’s all missed by the courtesan that’s already practically bolting toward the door to snag the leather jacket. He slips it on, adjusts the shirt beneath it, and shoots that glittering grin over his shoulder at Casimir like a siren luring him to his figurative death.

He has an idea that it’ll be a struggle for the bartender, if only because he’d never once seen him outside of the House of Midnight. And he’s positive he would have spotted his handsome face among the crowd, even if he wasn’t trying to be noticed. So he waits, excitement burning under his skin, the flush lingering on the tips of his ears and fading along his cheeks, and his shoulders slump slightly in relief the second that Cas starts walking toward him.

Hook line and sinker. The wool coat he slips on is elegant in a way that makes it feel almost homey, cozy and warm, drawing the sharp contours of the other man’s broad shoulders into something smooth and alluring. Thorn finds he has to look away lest he spend the next few moments staring at him.

So he focuses on the door, opening it and crossing the distance, shivering slightly as the cold chill hits his too hot cheeks and his open neckline. He hopes it’s enough to cool him off for the trek to the restaurant. It’s a companionable silence as they step away from the House, with Thorn shoving his hands into his pockets, the leather retaining some amount of heat but making it difficult to shove his hands in more fully.

He pretends to not notice. “Shouldn’t take us too long t’get to the post ‘n then we can warm up in the restaurant.” He says idly, breaking the silence before he’s glancing over at Casimir and trying not to choke on his breath with the continued realization he’s managed to squirrel him outside of the brothel into dinner with himself. “You a spaghetti kinda guy?” He asks, looking ahead to pick his steps carefully to not trip while the signpost starts to come into view at the bottom of the hill along the cobbled road.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

i fell in love with a war

The cobblestones are uneven under his feet, but Casimir glides over them with all the silence grace of a spider scuttling silently up a wall. He still can't quite accept the reality of the situation, even with the wind burning the tips of his cheeks and sending his carefully-combed curls whirling above his head, and as his feet drag over the winding street, he half expects to disappear in a gust of the wind and reappear back behind the bar. His afterlife in King's End, his extended post-death hallucination had blurred together in a slurry of near-identical scenes, and if this day were to end in an abrupt shifting back to normalcy, he would have the final piece of evidence he needed to confirm he was, in fact, a ghost. But as the signpost rose into view over the horizon as they neared and the wind continued to slam against him, battering his solid frame, Casimir gave up on trying to convince himself this wasn't real.

Thorn had been blessedly silent for a few peaceful moments, and Casimir was about to check if the man beside him had suddenly come down with a fever leading to his uncharacteristic placidity (or perhaps the shock of finally succeeding in drawing Casimir out of the House of Midnight had finally shut him up). Of course, placid silence of the night couldn't last with Thorn around, and Casimir's eyes narrowed into sharp slits of irritation at his inane question. Though his face stays the same slate-thick mask, he knew Thorn would catch the resigned endurance of his shenanigans. Buried deep in his eyes, so deep he could barely catch it, much less Thorn, a hint of amusement glimmered. Did he look like a spaghetti kind of guy? 

He lengthened his step, already long and lean, in an attempt to make Thorn keep up. The challenge was set; the courtier had dragged him out of the bar. Now, the matter was seeing if he could wring a word of out Casimir in whatever adventures he dragged him on that night.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The breeze isn’t as much of a distraction as he’d hoped it would be – a distraction to keep away the rush of heat still coursing through his cheeks and coloring them. Only this time he hopes he can claim they’re wind chapped and dry from the cold. He doubts he’ll be that lucky, but he supposes it’s a perk that the guy he’s asked to get dinner with him hardly speaks int eh first place. He can pretend it isn’t there as much as he knows Casimir won’t say a damn thing about it.

So Thorn purrs his question over toward Casimir with a grin, met with narrow irritation, and Thorn doesn’t know him well enough yet to see the spark of amusement underneath the façade. “Nah, prolly not, huh?” He purses his lips as the sign post comes into view, one hand withdrawing from the warm confines of his pocket to snap in front of him like he’s trying to remember what else they sell. “Lasagna, though. I think that’s your speed.” Less wiggly noodles looking like snakes and more like the brick wall that Casimir tended to be.

It’s while he’s thinking that he realizes Cas has picked up his pace, leaving Thorn behind. And while he isn’t blessed with the long legs the other man has, he’s blessed with the agility to help him keep up without even becoming breathless. Apparently it takes Casimir pinning him somewhere for the courtesan to really, truly lose the air from his lungs.

Picking up his own pace, Thorn barks a laugh and closes the distance, trying to bypass him in this little race. “Yeah, yeah, long legs.” Thorn touts, reaching out for the signpost to grab and take them to the New Haven signpost. And in the split second before it zips him away, Thorn manages to reach it, spinning around it with absolute delight in his seafoam gaze when he looks back to Casimir and sticks his tongue out at him.

In New Haven, the weather is just as biting but there’s people milling around, and Thorn waits for Casimir to appear for him to continue their little one sided conversation. “They ever start callin’ you that after y’got your spider shift? Or was I the first one t’be that creative?” Bouncing his brows, he turns on the heel of his boot to guide Cas toward the pasta restaurant.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

i fell in love with a war

Casimir wants to shoot back a dry look that tells Thorn he's not nearly as clever or charming as the must think himself to be, and to put that tongue back in his mouth before he made him, but he's trying much, much harder to look like he isn't about to faint from the utter surprise of the signpost whisking him off to an entirely new location. He catches himself before he can miss a step and straightens up quickly with the muscle memory of someone who had been knocked to the ground too many times for it to truly hurt, but his eyes widen a fraction at the sight around him. Stomach whirling, he throws a poisonous glower at Thorn who, of course, looks completely unaffected and continues flapping his lips with innocuous nonsense like nothing totally bizarre had just happened.

"You're not creative," He bites out and he hopes it stings as bad as his eyes do from the inertia of the abrupt travel. The street around them is utterly different from the one they just left, cozy and domestic, people walking merrily together talking about pleasant nothings. It seems like something out of a storybook, it seems, some bedtime story filled with platitudes for sleepless children needing reassurance the world is a wonderful place. The scenery in front of him is stark against his memories of Torchline, each of those lined with blood and sand and grit and pain. 

He sweeps behind Thorn, following now, just a step too far behind to truly be drawn into conversation without the man in front having to contort his head to see him. In that blindspot, he settles himself back into his body, breathing in the cold air deep until it filled his lungs with something biting and grounding. Then, he exhales sharply, turning his attention squarely to the man in front of him. The back of Thorn's neck is flushed, a bright, cosy red heightened only by the warm light illuminating their way. Was it the drink or the weather? Or perhaps Casimir was right about that fever. It would explain why the man's behavior had toed into abnormal that day. 

When it was clear the restaurant was straight ahead, Casimir utilizes those long legs of him to briskly burst a few paces ahead of Thorn, absentmindedly opening the door and letting the man pass through ahead of him. A chivalric gesture that is entirely selfish; in the lingering of the door, Casimir considers booking it one final time, leaving Thorn to this quest by himself. It wasn't like the conversation's one-sidedness would change with or without him being there. The rush of warmth that bursts from the door upon it opening is too tempting to turn from, though, and Casimir follows Thorn in with only a touch of reluctance in his step.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

“Damn, I thought I was really onto somethin’.” Thorn mutters, though doesn’t seem put off by the fact he wasn’t the first one to call Casimir long legs. Though it does make him wonder for the rest of the trek to the restaurant who was the one that started it. Was it a patron that was upset at being removed from the bar? Was it someone else? Was it the fact that Casimir could turn into something absolutely horrifying (because yes, Thorn is admittedly not the biggest fan of spiders, whether they’re drunk on wine or not).

He settles for the idea that he’s creative in other ways ha and takes the lead, leaving the back of his neck visible for the bartender to try and figure out whether or not the flush is caused from the heat, the liquor, or residual from the flush that had sparked to feel his body so close – because Thorn absolutely isn’t answering that question, should Cas get a bug up his ass to ask.

The restaurant is close and Thorn finds his steps increasing their pace a touch to reach the siren song of warmth and food from within when he notices Casimir’s increased step – opening the door for him. His kohl lined gaze lifts to the bartender’s face with a grateful smile and a glimmer of just how charmed he is, and he slips into the entrance of the restaurant with ease. “Thanks.” He says to Cas as he’s hit with the scent of basil and tomato, of a variety of pasta dishes and breads that attribute to a cozy, warm meal with the cold Flowerbirth weather outside.

He nods to the host in greeting and deosn’t wait to be sat, instead he leads the bartender further in so they can reach a booth closer to the back – cozy and warm and with a window just far enough away that they can’t be seen but they could absolutely stare out of it to watch the people mill past. Before he sits, though, there’s that unimpressed look in Casimir’s eye and something he reads as a silent offer to take his jacket.

Shrugging out of it with a brighter glint to his grateful smile from earlier, he hands the warm leather jacket over to the grumpy bartender. “Ain’t you a gentleman.” He teases, though it’s softer, something he’s look back on in fleeting moments while he still feels like he’s on cloud nine. The alcohol has started burning off, but Thorn’s cheeks remain rosy as he takes a seat against the worn leather booth. Before he takes up a menu, he stretches, tattooed arms raised above his head as he stretches out his back similarly to a cat prepping itself to sit and enjoy this space for a while.

His hands drop down in front of him, and he snags the menus and slides one over to Casimir when he sits. Taking a few moments to peruse it, Thorn’s not as sly as he thinks he is with the way he keeps glancing up to see the handsome bartender in a different backdrop, like he’s trying to commit it to memory. “They’ve also got pizza if you ain’t feelin’ pasta.” He points out, flipping his menu to point to the section that has a variety of on specialized pizzas.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same

i fell in love with a war

The confidence Thorn has waltzing into this restaurant is utterly astounding and Casimir follows him to the booth he selected, not feeling entirely unlike a lost puppy trying to find someone to lead them somewhere safe and familiar. His blue-green eyes sharpen in the low lighting of the restaurant, taking in the place and letting the strangeness of it fill his senses. It smells like candlewax and pizza and herbs, and people murmur in quiet conversation over plentiful portions, and it's so unlike the House of Midnight his head almost reels from it. Where the brothel is all whispered words and flowery scents in the air, this place is open and friendly. 

He takes Thorn's coat, thankful to have something tangible and helpful to do with his hands, and he's surprised that the courtier caught his desire to do it in the recesses of his eye. When his eyes had caught the silhouette of it when arriving at the table, it had seemed right and normal to offer to take it -- two things Casimir was terrible at being -- but the offer was lodged in his throat alongside all his other words. There's no secret desire to take Thorn's clothes off underlying his movement, despite how Thorn may be preparing to tease him that later, just a deep necessity to do something with his hands, and to do something helpful at that. To be the person his mother had wanted him to be, once.

It scares him that Thorn caught that in his eye, has learned to read him so effortlessly. 

The jacket is warm from Thorn's body heat under his hands, soft and grounding and real, and he places it gingerly on some small hooks by the booth where coats presumably go. He slithers out of his own and lands softly on the worn cushion of the booth, the plush seating curving under the rough weight of his body. Flushing slightly from the heat in this room, his body regulating from the rough winds outside, a finger drifts up to his throat and undoes the top button, his jagged, brutal scar peeking out in all its horrible glory across his throat. When he tilts his head to study the menu, a flash of the tattoo winding the top of his neck catches under the light.

Through his lashes, he studies the tattooed man as he stretches with a feline ease that near astounds him. In his silk, sheer clothing and dark-rimmed eyes, Thorn glimmers like wine under a sunny windowsill, utterly at ease. Casimir gazes at him, a touch incredulous, admiring his ability to chameleon himself to look like he belonged at every place his graceful body brought him -- while still, somehow, being utterly himself. His eyes drift back to the door while Thorn reads the menu, debating his dinner the way scholars would debate a new academic discovery.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

Oh how he notices the way Casimir gets comfortable. He notices the undone button at the top of his shirt that had been prim and proper before. But there’s something new he spies as he regards the bartender in all the silent ways he tries to be sly and sneaky as he scans the ‘menu’. He already knows what he intends to get, but he plays along so that Casimir doesn’t feel awkward about not knowing what he might want yet, and all the while he’s drinking in the rough gnarled edge of a scar that makes an appearance again, the way it reminds him of his own in a way that almost seems like it’s dimming the already low light of the restaurant.

He doesn’t have it in him to ask if it was similar to his story, of the way a trusted lover could betray someone to the point where it became if I can’t have you, no one can. The thought of mentioning it dies on his tongue, drying up where he wishes he had water magic to conjure it into a glass like their Archon could do, or that he might have taken a few more sips of the water Casimir had given him to try and filter out the alcohol one way or another.

Instead, he tracks the tattoo that’s new and fresh, visible in the way he hasn’t seen before. Reaching up as though it has long fingers, hard to see when it dips below. He has one of those too – only the opposite. The shackles of thorny vines that wrap around his wrists trail up the back of his arms and up his elbows, following the curve of the backs of his arms to his shoulders where they start to trail along each side of him, each branching dark green vine following the curvature to his hips before they connect finally along his lower back. A series of flowers bloom from the combination, though half are hard to see where they dip below the waistline of his pants – all that much more for people to wonder about.

Thorn doesn’t realize he’s being studied in turn, though. And in a moment of weakness, he reaches up to rub at his left collarbone, the sheer fabric moving with the motion. And when his hand slips away, the pale and raised scar tissue is seen as though a knife had embedded itself there at an angle, aiming for a more intentional target within him.

He shakes himself out of it by the time the waiter comes by, back into the rhythm of ease and flirtiness, a feline grin spreading across his face as he leans slightly against the bar and toward them. “Water, please. An’ I think I’ll get the pesto gnocchi.” He pauses, head tilting as he regards the menu again. “An’ some cheese bread for the table.” Lowering the menu, he looks over to Casimir with an easier, less flirty smile – the real Thorn beneath the mask. “An’ whatever he’s havin’.” He opens it up for Cas to say what he’d like – being a bit of an asshole in how he puts him on the spot to speak again.

Hawthorn

so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same