bless the young and rich

i fell in love with a war

The lights fade out of Casimir's periphery as his attention focuses entirely on Thorn's quiet words. The beats of them were familiar, said dozens of times in dozens of different moments of levity and cracked jokes to impressed patrons (and stone-faced bartenders), but injured truth leaks into the story's missing pieces. He didn't nod in sympathy, or make the half-groaned murmurs and grunts that was supposed to show he was listening; instead, he just listens, his hard eyes squared firmly on Thorn's face in neutral comprehending. 

Casimir's been told he's a good listener, and it's not just because he's too silent to interrupt. He knows he has a way about his airs, something that made it seem like the center of his entire world was on the speaker. It's partially why he had been such a good bartender, fulfilling that stereotype of the man behind the counter pouring out drink while he listened to woes. Now, if anything, he leans in more fully, absorbing all the pain and flush on Thorn's face. 

He doesn't say he's sorry. He doesn't apologize or fill the air with useless fluff. He doesn't snatch his hand away from where Thorn's pinky rubs it, though, and ignores the strange sparking that comes at the contact. The laughter that croaks from Thorn's lips is wholly unlike the boisterous, cheerful sound that filled the air earlier, and its brittle sound splits a crack in Casimir's heart. Thorn had a way of saying the right words, of healing a hurt within someone with just a few well-placed comments and a smile. Casimir knew he didn't have that soft and gentle part within himself, all jagged edges and knives, but...

Thorn had shared. Thorn had opened up his wound and showed the blood to Casimir. It was only fair he did the same.

"I think I'm dead," He blurts out, voice gravel-rough and quiet as the rush of the wind. "I hurt everyone in my life and then I ran. And I've been floating ever since." His hand pulls away from Thorn's and presses against his scar, rubbing hard.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

Casimir is a great listener. Not only because he’s patient enough to let every thought leave Thorn’s mind, but also because there’s no judgement in the lines of his face. Just the quiet watchfulness of someone putting pieces together but the conclusion still ends up being yours in the end. So he doesn’t have to explain how his dad had taken it, just that it wasn’t well, and whether Casimir made it better or worse than it realistically was, he doesn’t tell. And Thorn won’t continue to explain – not yet, at least.

He thinks it’s better if he leaves those particularly sad tales in the past. But it keeps him open, easy to settle down and look back at Casimir with that soft laugh that leaves him, one that almost seems to suggest he’s probably finding a way to twist something else into a barb at himself. But he doesn’t get that far – not as that lovely, baritone voice blurts out a sentence he isn’t entirely sure he’s heard correctly.

It doesn’t flash across his face, the confusion – not with the continuation of the thought, the way Casimir’s warm hand retreats from his, covers where he assumes that scar is that he’d noticed earlier. Thorn’s hand stays where it is, fingers pressed against the hard wood of the bar counter that reflects a mild dance of the aurora above. It’s a hue that continues in each of Casimir’s stray curls, a living rainbow of purple, teal, and green that dances there like Casimir hasn’t just said one of the saddest things Thorn thinks he’s ever heard.

He isn’t sure exactly how to respond, but Casimir is talking and he honestly hasn’t realized up and until this point that the pretty and aloof bartender with too few words and dangerous eyes was actually projecting something. It wasn’t an act. He was trying to keep people away because that was easier than dealing with it. Or maybe, it was that much harder to get attached to a ghost, floating through his life. “Floatin’ so you don’t feel it?” Thorn asks, purely out of innocence – no judgement on his face, just a curious glint to those seafoam eyes of his that are bright and not at all worried about getting hurt.

Like he wouldn’t mind trying to stick his hands into the barrel of fire that was Casimir, like he wouldn’t blink when the flames licked up his arms. “Or floatin’ to keep anyone from stickin’ around?” It was either to numb himself or to keep everyone at a healthy arm’s length. Maybe both. “Or is it jus’ your way to try ‘n atone for what ya did?” The questions are too personal, too close, but Thorn's gotten this far so he's got to try what he can to understand.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Floating. It was an unintentional choice of words on his end, as unpracticed as he was in the art of confession. Thorn's face is as gentle and open as it's ever been, no hint of levity or joking in his down, but also, no prying curiosity either. The question that spring from him are as gentle as his tone had been before. Utter, absolute incredulity washed over Casimir as he drank in Thorn's bright, curious eyes. How did the courtesan want to know more after that confession? Was he trying to determine just how bad Casimir was before plunging the knife in? 

The questions are waves at high tide against Casimir's senses and he lets them wash away from him. He couldn't answer even if he did know what to say, and he doesn't. Floating. How does he tell Thorn, the center of every room and shining like the aurora ahead that his hands drifted through everything he touched? That at night, he woke up half-screaming, hand clutched to his throat like he was trying to keep everything in him from spilling out? That the fist Thorn had been touching so gently had smashed the face in of countless fighters in the streets of Torchline, bloodying his knuckles and hands? 

Perhaps atonement is a shade closer to what he means, but it doesn't quite strike the right chord so Casimir stays silent, letting the silent desperation seep slowly and slightly to his eyes. It was too hard an admission to allow for anything else to leave his throat, his airway backed up from the words he had just spoken, so he merely shakes his head the smallest of amounts, knowing Thorn would see it. It's both a refusal to answer, as well as a negative confirmation to all he had just asked. His hand just keeps rubbing at his scar, hard and and almost rhythmic. Slowly, the puddle of blood returns to under his stool, but the distracted bartender doesn't even see where the dark red melts into the snow under him. 

His eyes study Thorn again, more intently than they had been, truly drinking in the innocent curiosity and open care written there. Why was the man so dedicated to running his hands over a sharpened sword to see if it would bleed? He would allow the space for Thorn to theorize and come up with a more desirable shape of Casimir in his head, so the next time the two spoke, Casimir would hope he could look Thorn in the eyes. 

Around him, the ethereal world of Halo melts back to the familiar prison, home, purgatory, and graveyard of the bar. The lights are low, like it's closing shift in the middle of the night, and lightning cracks against concocted windows. The stain of blood stays.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

Maybe it isn’t the best choice of words, but it’s the only one Thorn’s got – from the bartender’s mouth, even. So he runs with it, like it might help him figure out how to fit Casimir into a box to label with all the correct warnings. But it seems the other man takes it harder than it’s come across. Hurting people could be any number of things, and running through that logic, Thorn had also hurt people. He’d hurt his family when he’d left Halo, he’d inadvertently hurt his boyfriend back in Torchline for not giving up his job (which backfired spectacularly).

Cas hasn’t talked much about his past at all, so Thorn is at a bit of a loss when it comes to trying to determine what kind of terrible things he might have done when he’s been nothing but perfect here at the House. Quiet, a little judgy, playful and sharp with calculating eyes and a charming smile that suggests he wouldn’t take any shit from anyone. All he receives so far is a short, barely there shake of his head, enough that the courtesan can see it with little issue.

He chews on his bottom lip, thinking about what else he could say to try and get it closer to what Casimir is feeling – though something tells him he’ll find it hard to get in the right section without more context. Instead, the aurora starts to fade away, the room shifts back to its replica of downstairs, but darker, quieter, like a slumbering beast ready to indulge in the dark lone night.

Thorn hears the rumble of thunder from the windows behind him, the flash and flare of the light as it brightens the interior only for a brief second, before the courtesan is shifting into action again. He knows how much Casimir hates it when he sits on the bar, but he hopes he’ll forgive him for this eventually.

He hums a low sound as though he’s thinking, hauls himself back up onto the bar and scoots toward the edge closest to Casimir, legs on either side of the bartender as he reaches out to gently cup his face with those ringed fingers, his seafoam gaze scanning each and every pane of the other man’s face. “Are you punishin’ yourself?” He asks a little simpler. “Or d’ya think this is what you deserve? Keepin’ everyone away?” There's a heavy pause, one long enough for Thorn to formulate his next comment. "Well, mostly everyone. I can and am a thorn in people's sides. You especially."

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

As Thorn leaps onto the bar and rests his hands gently on Casimir's face, it takes every modicum of willpower he has stored in his powerful frame not to flinch away. The courtesan's hands are warm and soft, the rings a slight metal interruption from the feeling of gentleness against his face, and somehow, though the touch burns like the others that evening did, it's the good kind of pain. It hurts the same way someone's stomach would after laughing too hard, or the burn of a hot hearth after coming in from the cold. The sensation is utterly alien to the bartender, only able to recall the feelings of fists against skin. Nothing like this. A low, soft sound escapes his throat, barely audible over the storm raging outside, landing halfway between an exhale and an animal whine.

The intensity of Thorn's gaze, that way his seafoam eyes drink in every aspect of his face like there are marvels to be found there, it almost as searing as the touch of his hands and Casimir has to look away from it. His eyes find the ceiling, the window, Thorn's loose curls, the corner of his ear in avoidance, and when he can't take the pressure of the beautiful man's gaze, his eyes flicker shut. He breathes through the strange sensation in his chest, the thing inside him that aches and rots like an old, necrotized bruise. How long has he been holding it there? How long has he been holding it back? Thorn's cautious probing, the clasp of his hands against his face and the soft ways his eyes try to meet Casimir's peels back a scab that had only just barely closed. 

Hands shaking just slightly, he reaches up and clasps Thorn's wrists, and though he wants to pry them off his face, his traitorous hands wouldn't let him. They stay there, holding Thorn's wrists, loose and fragile like they could fall away at any moment. 

He can't answer Thorn's questions. He can't. He doesn't know how, doesn't know the answers and doesn't know how to force his tongue to form them even if he did. So he stays there, cowardly and craving, holding Thorn's hands against his face and silently begging him not to let go.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The first thing that comes to mind for the courtesan is that Casimir’s face is softer than he’d expected. The sharp panes of his face, the flecks of freckles that smatter across his skin, he’d nearly expected his hands to come away red when he does finally withdraw. It won’t be any time soon, though, not as Thorn continues to hold his soft, cold face. It’s like all the blood has drawn from him, but not in the way of fear of him. So Thorn attributes it to thinking that Casimir might just assume he hurts anyone that gets close these days.

And honestly, if they’re here breaking rules they’d kept to themselves, Cas would find he’s in good company. Because while the bartender had his own rules of keeping everyone away, Thorn had also done a similar vow. He’d promised to not get attached, to be care free and airy, weightless with nothing to tie him down. And here he was, with a one sided crush on the bartender in front of him that he cradles between his hands like he’s made of porcelain and any wrong move would send him shattering to the floor, studying his face to commit it to memory in case it never got further than this.

The connection increases with Cas’ hands that lift and circle his wrists, covering the shackles of vines he’d tattooed there. The previous whine lingers in his mind, but he figures if Cas didn’t like this, he’d certainly not allow it to continue. His wrists wouldn’t be held so loosely. And honestly? The strength that ripples along Casimir’s body and arms put all of Thorn’s to shame – it would take no time at all for the bartender to get out of this if he wanted to.

So Thorn continues on, holding him gently, refusing to let go as he leans in and presses his forehead against Casimir’s – injecting more warmth and softness and closeness to someone he assumes to be quite touch starved. “There’s more to you, y’know. You’re not just your past ‘n what you’ve been through.” His voice is softer, gentler, and if it weren’t for the fact they’re close enough his breath can rake gently against Casimir’s face, it might have been low enough to be drowned out by the thunder that continues to storm just outside the windows of this makeshift room. “You’ve been good t’me. For me, too.”

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

When Thorn’s forehead presses against his, gentle and firm in its pressure, his hot breath mingling with Casimir’s labored breathing, he knows he’s a fraud. Who is he, to be held gently by Thorn, to receive gentle whispers of kindness and encouragement when the other man hadn’t even known what he was running from?

He should pull back, reject the courtesan’s kindness, firmly correct the misconception there was something good within him. What is a person if not the sum of everything they’ve been? And Casimir has done so much wrong, so much hurt, that all the gentleness within him rotted away when he fled Torchline and was reborn at the end of a daemon’s claws. He has no right to lean into Thorn’s touch and allow himself to be cradled like a delicate thing that deserves light handling.

His hands don’t move against Thorn’s. He doesn’t go to push him away. The courtesan smells like petrichor and sandalwood, a forest before a storm ravages through. Delicately, like he’s afraid of his touch combusting something precious, his hands move up to rest gently against Thorn’s cheeks. He inhales deep, soft and slow, preparing himself to push away and savoring this while he has it. Before Thorn realized better.

His heart burns low and fierce in his chest, and with his brain on fire, he slowly moves his lips mere millimeters away from Thorn’s.

The movement is delicate, a hand brushing the petals of the flower, soft and hesitant and almost afraid of the touch. His chest is concave, filled with need for something he can’t touch, and he leaves the choice of whether their lips should join in Thorn’s hand, like the coward he is. His top lip brushes against Thorn’s bottom one, a zap of electricity moving through him, and he prepares himself move away if Thorn shows any sign of not wishing to proceed.

He should pull away, actually, knows in this heart this is an awful idea and he should run. Any moment now, he’ll leap from the stool and retreat like he had in the restaurant. Any second now.

He doesn’t move.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The courtesan isn’t at all expecting this shift – not that he’ll complain, mind you. But his goal had been to prove to him that he’s not alone, that Casimir, despite what he thinks he should put himself through, maybe doesn’t deserve to just watch his life slip on by. But Thorn can only offer so much in answer, this gentle touch to someone that rarely got touched apart from fleeting brushes of fingers as glasses are snagged.

Thorn remains there, without any indication that Casimir wants out, offering what he can and thinks might help. He only shifts slightly when he feels the bartender move. It doesn’t pull him away from where their foreheads are pressed, but he feels the warm heat of those calloused hands on his cheeks, gently resting there, and it spurs a sharp heat to bloom in his cheeks again and drift to his neck, leaving them in patchy splotches beneath the silver chain choker.

But the heat in his cheeks at this point is nothing compared to the inferno he feels when Casimir’s head tips up, the brief and barely there brush of lips, and one that Thorn never thought he’d get. A breath leaves him, hot and a touch shaky, but not because he’s nervous of Casimir. It’s more like he thinks he’s dreaming and would certainly have to pinch himself just to prove he’s awake and experiencing this.

But Casimir doesn’t move, doesn’t claim, and so Thorn does them both a favor. One of the hands resting on the bartender’s cool, smooth face slips back to thread his ringed, glittering fingers into Casimir’s curls and he closes the distance – a testing kiss, one that’s soft and gentle and does nothing to hide the thunder racing in his veins, that echo in his ears. But he doesn’t do much more than this testing kind of kiss, not at first, not until he thinks Casimir won’t run from him after cementing this moment between the two of them.

He stays.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Thorn’s lips press against Casimir’s, so light and gentle, just like the way the courtesan had help his face and it nearly send Casimir shattering into a million sharp, fragment pieces. Another low, half-feral whine escapes his lips when Thorn’s fingers wrap around his curls, and then Thorn was pulling back just enough for their breaths to mingle and the aching echo of his heartbeat to roll so loudly in his ears he could swear Thorn would hear it.

The kiss is the ghost of something, a toe dipped into unsteady waters, but the way Thorn pulls back doesn’t seem like regret or hesitation. It feels like space to breathe, space to run, space for Casimir to come to his delirious senses and flee the room like he should have done hours ago. Casimir’s hands clasp just a little tighter where they rest up Thorn’s cheek and his eyes flutter open, meeting the seafoam of the man mere millimeters from his face.

And Casimir wants. For the first time since he died, perhaps, he wants something other than the daily miasma of running, of floating, of self-flagellation and hours behind the bar watching other people live. There is someone here, and he is more beautiful than Casimir could ever deserve, and for some reason, he thought he wanted someone like Casimir. His heart surges with guilt and longing, a tidal wave that sweeps through him, and yet— he’s selfish. He’s always been so, so selfish.

This time, it’s Casimir that broaches the gap between them, tilting his head just slightly to catch him at a better angle. A hand drifts down from Thorn’s hands to rest against the man’s neck, pulling him just that much closer, and his lips move gentle but more sure when they dance against Thorn’s.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The courtesan might be able to hear it, if it weren’t for the thunder in his own ears. It drowns out nearly everything except the bartender’s breaths, but the next flash of lightning that crosses along them doesn’t even garner a reaction when Thorn continues to hold Casimir close. His head tilts slightly into the hand clasping against his cheeks, seafoam meeting slate blues that seem more like the storm of an ocean with its choppy waves, daring anyone to get near, knowing it only served a terrible kind of fate.

But Thorn’s lost in them regardless, soaking in that gaze, the softness of Casimir’s curls between his fingers, the way he’s perched up here on the edge of the bar and he thinks that, perhaps, the space between where Cas sits on the stool and where Thorn has propped himself up was more like miles than the mere inches their faces make it seem.

It’s this space that feels like it goes on for eternity, studying one another, the way their breaths intermingle and Thorn swallows in anticipation when Casimir’s hand drops to his neck, the silver chain choker moving slightly beneath his palm. But like a hummingbird drawn to nectar, Thorn dives in when Casimir breaks the space between them, this better angle practically supercharging the courtesan into shedding the caution and uncertainty of before.

A low hum of a moan slips past his lips, pouring into Casimir’s mouth as he shifts, slinking closer somehow like he can break the distance between them. He uses all of his agility and ability to slip off the lip of the bar into the bartender’s lap, arms threading further to wrap around his neck and tangle his fingers into those soft, bouncing curls, and he selfishly indulges.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

As Thorn eases himself onto his lap, Casimir moves a hand from his cheek down to his supple waist to support him, gingerly grasping the side of it. He moves as if a single incorrect movement will shatter the man in his hands like a porcelain doll dropped upon yielding stone even as Thorn pushes himself closer into him, intertwining ringed hands into curled hair. The air around them seems to flicker from the contact, like the illusory lightning storm had conjured within the bar to electrify their skin, but it's just Thorn. Thorn, with his roving hands and hungry touch and his gentle way, his mouth against Casimir's and his body on his lap and nothing else here matters but that. 

He feels like he's gone a lifetime without sun and Thorn opens a long-barred and dusty window to the sensation he didn't even know he was missing. His tomb, long-buried and caked in dust and cobwebs, cracks open, and so does the confines of his heart. How could he have ever shut himself off from this? Casimir's hip move under Thorn's lap, adjusting him slightly, adjusting him closer. He allows Thorn to guide them, pushing when he pushes and pulling when he does, letting the courtesan to draw him deeper into bliss. 

Hand swimming up Thorn's body, he traces up the sheer clothing until his hand rests cradling and fisted against his heart. It beats under his touch, steady and wild and so alive, and-- 

Casimir's chest is empty. He realizes it then, with the warmth of the other hand under his hands that he's cold as a corpse and though what's left of him yearns for this, yearns for Thorn to move his hand against his neck, there's nothing inside worth having. 

He pulls away with a gasp, ripping his hands from Thorn's body and scrambling off the stool. The lithe man gets shoved off his lap and he feels another horrible, petrifying wave of guilt and carrion birds cawing as he stumbles backwards, breathing heavily. 

"I--" The words come stopped and choked in his throat but Thorne deserves something other than the hollow silence he leaves behind him. "I'm sorry," He spits out before doing what he does best. For the second time that night, he runs from Thorne, turning heel and fleeing from the enchanted room.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

It feels right, like everything is starting to fall into place. He settles in Casimir’s lap, his hands diving into those smooth, soft curls. Mouth against mouth, Thorn flushes darkly, patches blooming against his pale, tattooed skin. He’s happy to sit here for however long the bartender wants, each and every second that passes feels like a warm rain shower, like he’s being cleansed.

He can tell it’s different for the other man, ravenous in a way that’s different from Thorn’s. Because it wasn’t like he lacked any ability to make out or fuck, but in the way that it means more. This wasn’t just a passing fling for the courtesan, an attempt to be whatever the other man needed in order to get some money. This had real, underlining feeling laced all throughout it.

So, perhaps, he shouldn’t be too surprised when it starts to go sideways. Until then, he thrives with each adjustment that Casimir makes, each adjustment of his hip and the feel of those calloused hands rising up his shirt and against his chest where his heartbeat runs away with itself. He barely has time to catch his own breath as Casimir starts to scramble, sucking in a sharp breath, dazed and in bliss before everything starts to shift.

He slips off the bartender’s lap, shoved, hitting the ground a little harder than he otherwise would if he had his magical wits about him. He hits his hip on the wood floor rather hard, but it’s nothing a little of his magic can’t fix. For now, though, he rises up enough on his side, propped up by his elbow as Casimir bolts, and all he can do with the wind knocked out of him is reach for the barstool with a dazed “wait!” though he anticipates the bartender missing it in the hurry of his departure.

Thorn doesn’t chase this time. He's too winded. Instead, he rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling as the lightning strikes across the windows again and illuminates it in a ghoulish blue. His hands lift, rubbing at his face before one drops to his hip and it starts to glow, healing the bruise that would linger from the shove.

And for yet another time tonight, the courtesan wonders if he’d overstepped.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Casimir scrambles down the back staircase, body thumping against the walls and feel thumping roughly against each creaking step. People downstairs likely think some poor patron has been shoved down the stairs, but it's just Casimir allowing his mistakes to knock him down. His sins are crawling up his back; the look of Thorn's face when he roughly shoved him off his lap flickers between that open, curious look he gave him when asking those awful, gentle questions about his past. 

Thorn would never forgive him, he thinks, and the man shouldn't. Casimir has hurt him too many times that evening, shoved him away too many times, made him think he's done something wrong by trying to get close when really it was that awfulness in Casimir that sent him fleeing. He almost goes back, almost finds his way to the enchanted room to rip apologies from his throat and make sure Thorn knows it wasn't his fault. 

But he can't. Instead, he flies down the stairs like a coward, hiding in the shadows of the House of Midnight and making his way to his little secret room all the way in the back. He's almost certain no one knows it exists except for Sunjata and perhaps one courtesan who got lost one day. When he tumbles inside, he latches it and heaps down onto the bed, putting his head in his hands. 

His palms on his cheek land on the same place where Thorn's had been and he rips them away, trying to preserve the memory of the touch as best he could. Thorn would realize this was better for him, eventually. He'd push Casimir out of his mind and move onto kinder, better, more open prospects. He'd find someone who deserved him. 

As the feelings rose in his chest, rearing and ugly, he lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, mind drifting away. He'd bite through the pain, bury it down and arrive on time for his shift the next day with no one the wiser.

He bit his lip and tried not to scream.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

Casimir doesn’t wait. If anything, the thunder is a backdrop to the thundering footsteps that depart the room faster than he thinks he’s heard anyone leave. But he tries not to let it burn in the crevices of his chest, where he’d been sure things had been going well. He thinks for a split second that maybe it isn’t him, though that thought fades just about as quickly as it had come on.

He rubs at his face and draws himself up from the floor. Picking up the trash from their dinner, with the cheese bread still mostly untouched. And with a few more chastising thoughts of what are you doing, Thorn?, the courtesan slips out of the shifting room to head toward the stairs. The back steps, at least, that way he can kind of try to follow the echoing footsteps that feel like they’ve branded their way into his mind.

He comes up empty, though, even heading back toward the bar where everything feels a little too bright compared to how it had been upstairs – where the oil lamps flicker and glow and the light fades from outside. No thunderstorms this time, but an overwhelming sense of ease and happiness that had always made things smoother.

It doesn’t this time, not as he reaches the other bartender, the one that had let Cas leave early. A quick conversation to ask if he’d seen him only to get the quick answer of last I saw him, he was with you, which only makes it feel that much more defeating.

So Thorn starts his search, wondering which nook and cranny the bartender had snuck off into – whether the wine spider currently curled around a port of wine back at the bar had been Casimir, hidden away from sight - not that Thorn would look too hard at it, afraid of spiders as he is.

Hawthorn

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