bless the young and rich

i fell in love with a war

Casimir's eyes track the way Thorn's fingers drift up to his collarbone to rub at a lump he recognizes as a scar. Thorn's body, as display as it was at the House of Midnight, did not have many mysteries left in the spaces above the waist, at least not for one who sees him so often as Casimir. With a knack for spotting old scars and injuries from his fighting days, he had clocked the raised scar before and squarely sorted it with the 'none of his business' category in his head, where most other things about Thorn resides. This time, though, as Casimir feels the warmth of the restaurant against his own throat, he recognizes the fluttering of Thorn's fingers as a response. His hand leaps to his throat, quickly fastening the button again trapping the awful thing under its typical prison of dark fabric. His gaze hardens, walls once again rising, as it meet's Thorn, defiant and challenging and too defensive, ready to field off whatever invasive question arises to the man's gifted tongue or snarky comments. Almost pointedly, his eyes stay fixed on Thorn's seafoam ones, and does not dip down to gaze at his collarbone's scar. 

He's saved from a potential confrontation by the waiter, though instantly plunged into another challenge. The menu in front of him swims with words he didn't read, and Thorn, the jackass, is looking at him with an easygoing smile waiting for him to say something to the waiter and with a start he knows he's been outplayed. Point, Thorn, in this little game of theirs. Casimir is determined to dredge back a point for stubbornness and points his finger to something random on the menu, his glower settling on the slightly terrified waiter. With his finger pointed at the menu, his gaze knife-cold and jaw set, he dares the waiter to ask a follow-up question. 

The waiter doesn't, and hurries off to his next table and away from the crazies in the corner booth. 

Casimir's eyes swing back to Thorn, moving his forearms to rest on the table. He leans in a little as if to say something in confidence, dangling the possibility in front of Thorn with a sharp intake of breath like he's going to say something. Holding the moment for as long as he can, his sharp eyes bear into Thorn's, dancing with amusement. Then, just when he's dredged out the moment for as long as he can and it looks like the words will finally spill from his mouth, he-- 

Remains silent. An eyebrow quirks just slightly, and Casimir claims victory for that round.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

It’s quietly becoming a standoff — not that it wasn’t to begin with. That hardened look in Casimir’s gaze that screams for him to avoid any further questions, alongside hiding the scar in question. Thorn doesn’t intend to question it, not unless he’s willing to answer his own.

And he isn’t. It’d take a whole lot more liquor for that to slip out and even then it would take a lot of pushing, which he doubts Casimir is capable of. But the tension is thankfully relieved with the approach of the waiter, and Thorn slips back into a version of himself from before he’d gotten all confused and twisted up inside.

Only, he isn’t expecting Casimir to do the same. His attention flits to the bartender as he pointedly points at the dish he wants with a face sharp enough to cut someone should they look a little too long, and gods does Thorn continue to watch in quiet amusement.

But then, there’s something that seems more open, a shift to the bartender’s face, the way he leans in like a secret is ripe on his tongue and he has to share. And for Thorn? It’s a honey trap. He’s pretending like his breath isn’t baited as he waits to hear whatever drop of that rough, lovely voice he might get, only to watch as it combusts in a whole lot of nothing.

Thorn laughs. The sound rich and vibrant from his throat as he sits back and relaxes against the back of the leather booth, shoulders hunching up by his pierced ears before they fall and he exhales out a sigh. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure they call that edging, in case ya wanted to keep your lingo up to date.” Chin tilting up, Thorn peers back at the handsome bartender with an amused, feline twist to his lips and a look that seems to suggest game on.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Casimir savors the way Thorn's face transforms in anticipation of his words. It's a subtle change, but the bartender has years of watching the man's face move, as well as the eye of a constant observer from his lookout at the bar. He almost feels bad for the trick, watching the way Thorn's eyes alight with something eager and delighted, thinking he's won. Almost. When he lets the silence fall between them like a rock, he's not sure what to expect, his smug satisfaction overcoming all other instincts. 

But then Thorn is laughing, shoulders shaking from the effort and Casimir's mind short-circuits from the sound. It often fills the halls of the House of Midnight, recognizable and boisterous and joyful, but it's not usually a sound Casimir draws out of him. Or anyone. He gets grins and wry chuckles and something a full-throated giggle, but not genuine laughter pouring from throats. The sound fills his ears and the slightest corner of his house mouth quirks up in response, barely perceptible but there nonetheless. He didn't think there was anything he could say -- or not say -- that could gather that reaction from anyone, much less the good-humored courtesan. Maybe Thorn just had bad taste and low standard. Or, he took more enjoyment from Casimir than the bartender could imagine. 

(What the fuck did edging mean?)

The memory of the word 'friends' drifts through his thoughts like a salve on a wound, and it alights something in his chest again. It doesn't burn the way it did before, but kindles something different this time. Something comforting, almost. Though he still doesn't know what keeps the man clinging onto the mere prospect of eking a word out of the taciturn bartender, or what gets him so excited about stealing one from him, other than the thrill of the challenge. It's flattering his silence is such an interesting facet to Thorn, a prize to be chased and a commodity, though the interest confuses him.

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat, the leather creaking under him from the movement. Thorn's smile has turned decidedly mischievous and there's clearly some evil cogs moving in his evil brain for an evil plan, but Casimir is still riding high on his victory. Cocking his head to the side slightly, he keeps his face passive and blank, but his eyes sparkle with amusement. After years of dealing with Thorn's antics, he's got a few tricks up his sleeve.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The laughter warms him, too, amusement glittering in his seafoam gaze as he settles on Cas’ face. He reacts a little less sharp, a little less like he’s trying so hard to get a rise out of him in return. And Thorn thinks for a second if he looks really hard, he can see the twitch of a small smile trying to flare on the corner of his lip. It’s a double win – that Casimir had gotten to win this round but Thorn had gotten something out of it too.

And honestly, if he asked what edging was, Thorn would be happy to explain or maybe one day give an example.

Either way, the courtesan settles in his seat and watches with his glittering eyes as Cas settles, too, the leather of the booth seat creaking. His attention drops to the cross of those arms along that broad chest, the muscle he can see from beneath the other man’s sleeves. Silence overtakes them again, but it isn’t awkward. Instead, it’s almost respectful – letting Casimir ride in the victory of winning his round.

The waiter scurries over to give them their glasses of water as well before vanishing again and Thorn reaches out to snag his glass to give his hands something to work with. “You can try some’ve my pasta if y’want.” He offers out, sucking in a slow breath and nibbling on his lower lip briefly before he’s straightening up to lean back across the table, closer to Casimir with that same amusement glittering in his eyes. “But don’t get too full. Their desserts are t’die for.” He dramatically groans, quiet enough to not be heard over the din and chatter and music – a quiet performance for Casimir alone.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Thorn's throat bobs as he takes a sip of the water and Casimir follows, grateful for something to do with himself that isn't just sitting and staring. He wasn't very good at this; just existing in a place, allowing himself to unwind and unravel with someone friendly and familiar. At the bar, he had a purpose, a place, and a clear set of rules and expectations to follow. It was easy to stay within the lines of what he was supposed to be, and nobody expected him to be any different. Well, except for Thorn, who seemed to have made it his sole purpose to push Casimir over that line and sprawling into unknown territories designed specifically to torture him. The water is cool against his lips and he drains half the glass in a single pour before settling it back down on the table. The condensation forms a little ring of water where it stands, and he remembers Thorn's graceful, ringed fingers dragging their way through a similar ring just a few hours ago. Had it really been only a few hours since Thorn ripped apart everything established between them and forced it open into a new, strange shape? 

The press of this new shape, this new relationship, this friendship bears into Casimir, breathing down the back of his neck. The sound of the dramatic groan falling from Thorn's lip is not unusual, and sends the bartender's eyes flickering into a minute eye-roll for his efforts, but the familiarity of the joke almost puts him at ease. They can still be Thorn and Casimir, separated by a thick slab of wood. They can still be who they were. 

He's not even able to convince himself of the lie, and his arms cross against his chest again as a defensive maneuver. His brawn cannot protect him against words, though, as much as his wishes it may. His mouth opens slightly as if to speak, but then closes again. It's not an intentional fake-out like it was before, (or an edging? as Thorn called it), but likely has that effect anyone. Or, he looks like a fish searching for water, with his throat bobbing from the effort. 

Casimir has vowed to make this dinner as difficult as possible for the grinning courtesan, and he does not wish to renege that promise to himself. But, for some reason, Thorn's clean, soft hands are reaching to try and grasp onto Casimir's bloodstained ones; as for why, the bartender truly could not say, another than an interest in discovering that which can only hurt him. He wants to slap away the efforts, to growl and warn him off for Thorn's own good and protect him from what hurt Casimir will undoubtedly cause. But, some evil, whispering, selfish part of himself wants to reach back. 

It can only hurt him. It can only hurt them both. 

In the flickering light of the restaurant, Thorn's gaze alight with amusement and genuine pleasure at Casimir's company (for some bizarre reason), the man's resolve cracks just slightly. 

"This is hard for me," He admits, his voice a low murmur, the first he voices in this strange, hallowed place. He feels like they linger in the air like the smoke from the candles before disappearing to wherever harsh truths go after they're said. The admission stings his throat and he tries hard to suppress a wince, the barbs of the words' hooked edges digging into his throat. They force themselves out of him anyway, uncaring of how he may bleed, desperate to be heard.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

He thinks it might stay like this – with Thorn offering all of the conversation for the night. He doesn’t mind – he knew what he was getting into when he’d successfully pestered the bartender into stepping out of the House of Midnight’s dark din of comfort and indulgences. The problem is that because he doesn’t know much about Casimir, he unintentionally aims for everything that burrows under the attuned’s skin, the kind that drags against scars long since patched over, tearing through them with reckless abandon.

Sipping from his water, he sets the glass back down and glances up at Casimir, unaware of the destruction he’s leaving in his wake, because apparently for however much the bartender is worried about hurting him, Thorn’s own vines tangle and choke the other man. He doesn’t know, doesn’t see it for what it is. It’s not a branding burn that he can look at and point to and say that’s where it hurts. The slow strangle of the vines leave little to nothing behind as they slowly creep in and tighten over a longer span of time.

Eyes finding Casimir’s face again with all the ease and amusement lingers there, watching as he tries to say something before deciding against it. Temporarily, at least. Thorn thinks it’s another attempt to get him to fall for it – but the jokes on Casimir. He’d fallen for it once already, he wouldn’t do it again.

‘This is hard for me.’ Now the jokes on Thorn – and all amusement and ease and casual effortlessness fade in a brittle instant. Concern has his brows pinching together, a rigidity settling in his spine. He could joke about it, he could blow it away and pretend like Cas was overreacting. But Thorn spent a lot of time with people and their insecurities in his line of work, and in some ways found himself in a similar boat that Casimir did. An unintentional therapist, only Thorn couldn’t get away with the quiet watchfulness and non-answers that the bartender did.

“Which part?” He asks softly, letting it drop in his own low murmur – not as deep as Casimir’s lovely voice when he does hear it. But it’s calm and cool and completely at odds with his usual free, devil may care attitude. There’s concern and worry in the lines of his face, more sober now than he was before. He realizes shortly after that Cas doesn’t really need to answer the first question, because he’d hazard a guess and say that it was kind of all of it. “Fuck, 'm sorry. How can I help?” He asks instead, suddenly realizing that it was him that had selfishly projected all this fun onto the bartender, not realizing how much of a hell it might have actually been.

He'd try whatever he wanted, honestly. Thorn was nothing if not a chameleon, slipping into different skins depending on what someone needed at that moment, and while he waits for Casimir's answer, he can already feel the usual shape of him grow taut, ready to swap at a moments notice.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Casimir bites back a wince as he sees Thorn's face fold into one of genuine concern, his voice lowering into something quiet and real. Worse, he can see the set of his shoulders tensing and setting back like an acrobat about to perform a trick; it's a tell Thorn has, very slight and barely perceptible, when he's about to morph himself into someone new, to be whoever he thinks the other person wants him to be. Over countless evenings Casimir has seen that tiny shrug as Thorn pours himself into conversations with beautiful strangers, seducing them and letting his words twist and lilt. The move hadn't been used on him in years, though, not since their first meeting when Thorn tried to morph himself into who Casimir wanted to see and got a level, unimpressed look in response. 

Gods, this isn't what he wanted. The strangled admission, the waving of the white flag, wasn't supposed to inspire this guilty, low tone in the courtesan. Casimir wants to put his guard up, his fists up against his chin in response to defend against an attack, but he couldn't do that, not when Thorn is looking at him like he needs to fix whatever he thinks he broke. It isn't his fault that it's Casimir that's broken. The wounds within him bleed and bleed and everything they touch stains red and ruined, and here Thorn sits, looking at him like he was the one who wielded the knife even though it was Casimir who rots and ruins. Fuck, he should've just kept his mouth shut and his words locked in the trap in his throat they were so comfortable in. A ghost cannot wield weapons that hurt.

As his jaw works his words up, shifting slightly under his clenched teeth, he wants to run from the mess he's wrought. His eyes look everywhere but Thorn, focusing instead on the humid glass on the table and the beads of water that collect on the outside, sliding down the glass onto the counter where they join the great amorphous blob of the ring under the cup. No matter how hard Casimir concentrates, he cannot morph into that blob and disappear into nothing. 

He could run and leave Thorn behind, but the hurt would fester and grow, the injury turning sickly infected. The guilt sits clear on Thorn's face, and though his knuckles itch with the desire to put them up against his chin and press his back to the wall in defense, he knows he cannot in good conscious allow his sin to fester in Thorn's heart. 

"Don't do that," An attempt at gentleness, though the tone comes out more strained than he wished, like he's breathing through the pain of a stab wound. "You're... shifting. It's me. Not you." It's all he can push out, and he wonders what Thorn will take from his stilted words, or if he's even realized his silence is more than his half of their game they play.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

The morphing and shifting is what he’s good at – especially for being a magic wielder and not an attuned where it might come naturally. Thorn’s become a great version of someone that can become what’s needed of him, so much so that sometimes it was hard to find the real him underneath it all. The game he has with Casimir is the closest he tends to feel like himself and perhaps that’s why he’s tried so hard to keep this connection, even when he’s slowly starting to realize he’s choking both of them with it.

He watches Casimir like a doctor might survey a patient, monitoring for anything else he might have overstepped or overlooked, to see which point of himself had gone too far to see if he can still grip the ledge he’d jumped off of. He sees the muscles flare in the handsome face of the bartender, even if he won’t look at him. Not that he blames Casimir for it, for finding a thing that might make it easier to explain rather than the potential judgement that might sit on the watcher’s face.

Only, Thorn won’t have judgement written on his. If anything, it’s passive and easy and calm. He wants to fix this, to restore whatever little bit of the night that hadn’t been ruined before he’d stuck his glittering fingers into it. And when the voice comes, he can tell it’s trying to be something it isn’t. It also isn’t a chastise like he’s come to expect from the bartender. If anything, it’s almost gentle in the way it’s strained.

The courtesan chews on his bottom lip as he clutches the glass in one hand, ignoring as a drop of condensation trickles over his fingers to splatter on the table. There’s some kind of deepset realization there when he tells him he’s shifting – because Thorn had come a long way to be the one to admit that it’s what he does, but it’s extremely rare to hear it come from someone else. He feels like Casimir’s holding up a mirror for him to look at, and all at once Thorn’s tension starts to bleed out of him. His shoulders lose their tightness, but he can’t quite wipe off the concern just yet. “Y’can talk to me about it? It’s not like I’m gonna go and tell anyone.” He tries for that amusement in his tone, the playfulness that had been there before but even that feels as hollow and flat as the way his lips try to twitch up into a smile.

He can let Casimir think it’s himself causing the confusing switch in the conversation, but it’s Thorn’s hands that have also shifted the tides. “I want you to have a good time. I don’t wanna make it harder for you.” Usually, he might have some snappy, charming joke there with the innuendo he’s left open, but the courtesan’s honesty pours from him like honey – so similarly to when he hadn’t even dared to get out of Casimir’s grip back at the bar but tried to prove to him that he did consider them friends and he wanted them to have a good time. What good would come from Thorn blowing up the only real face he’d known for years that was still around? That he saw daily?

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

A slight air of amusement floats into Casimir's eyes as Thorn offers to let him talk about it, and he shakes his head slightly, but not with any defensiveness or offense. It's just like the courtesan to offer to let him talk through it, despite the bartender's clipped sentences and reticence to open his mouth for anything but a short sarcastic comment or a growl. It's so earnestly charming that he feels a spark of amusement flicker in his chest, warm and comforting. 

The realization that if he could, perhaps Casimir would take him up on that offer, was a terrifying slam to his senses and he blinked away the shock like he would shake off a brutal hit to the gut. 

At least Thorn has relaxed some, no longer looking like he's an actor trying to remember his next line in front of a curious audience. The gentle concern is still written plainly in his face, but it's a look he recognizes as real, matching closely to the one he wore when Casimir had his body pinned up against the bar. In the face of danger, a charging bear, Thorn doesn't look scared for himself, but once again, for Casimir. He waits for that to stir up some anger in him, to trigger the defensive armor that protected him against prying eyes for so many years, but it rises in a slow start. With Thorn's heart bared in front of him, he cannot quite bring himself to cover his own again. 

Casimir sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, curls springing back into their tidy formation as his hand passes through. "It's not you," He repeats firmly with an edge of finality to the phrase. There aren't many more words in his reserves, and nothing smooth or sweet prepared. He cannot use a honey-tongue the same way Thorn would to reassure the other man, so he pushes what strength he has into his tone, trying for conviction and hoping it doesn't read as defense. The statement is accompanied with a decisive nod, as if that settles the matter unequivocally and covers any follow-up question. 

It's at that particular moment that the waiter, perhaps previous too scared to cross Casimir again by interrupting their conversation, brings their food.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

It was probably a poor choice of words – to talk through it when he’s gotten the most amount of vocal commentary this evening than he had in years despite his best attempts. And all he has for it is a repeated sentence, the fact that it wasn’t him even when it still kind of felt like it was. Things would have been fine had he not pushed the bartender into joining him here, if he’d let him stay in the lair of the House of Midnight, away from too many people with too little to do, either seeking food, help, or a bed not having to share it alone.

Thorn wonders silently whether or not Casimir wished for nights like those, where he didn’t have to spend it in the quiet recesses of the House of Midnight with only his thoughts to keep him company. But, much like everything else, Thorn doesn’t know much about the bartender. He doesn’t know whether he’s got pets or fancies anything in particular, what his favorite tune played at the House of Midnight is, what his favorite color might be.

But he takes the answer for face value, watching as Cas’ hand rakes through those tight curls, and Thorn nods his answer enough to loosen one of the strands of dark hair until it falls into his face. “M’kay.” He hums, mouth opening to say something else in a mirrored image of Casimir not too long ago – because the waiter brings their food, steaming and hot and sets it in front of them, and Thorn shifts gears to thank the waiter for the food.

Picking up his fork, he prods a little at the pesto gnocchi as if deep in thought. The fork is sat down, Thorn reaching out to the cheese bread in the middle to tear off a strip for himself and one for Casimir that he sets on his plate with a return of those casual smiles. “S’good for dippin’ into the sauce.” He says, showing the bartender as he takes his own strip and dips it into the pastel green sauce and promptly bites into it with relief to have something to do and food for his stomach that’s so far only had liquor and water.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

Casimir studies the food on his plate, the random thing he pointed at in the menu turning out to be some sort of meaty pasta. He’s really the type to eat anything — as demonstrated by his nightly meals cobbling together whatever he can from the House of Midnight’s stores — and it steaks hot and appetizing on his plate. The green sauce, however, looks suspicious, but Thorn took a huge bite without wincing so it was unlikely to be poisoned. Almost delicately, like trying to grasp at a writhing snake, he picks up the other half of the bread Thorn tore for him and submerges a corner into the sauce. He lifts it to his mouth and chews carefully, savoring the way the cheese floats across his tongue; it’s much better than the gruel and meals of detritus he feeds himself with, and he tries not to allow the enjoyment to show on his face.

Thorn digs into his meal with the gusto of someone who had been drinking on an empty stomach, but there’s a fervor and intensity in the movement of his hands that smack of someone trying to keep themselves busy. His eyes no longer linger on Casimir’s scowling face like it’s a new, sparkling commodity, and Casimir would be relieved to slink back into his careful non-existence, but the worry that fills his chest makes him wonder if that marveling gaze has been replaced with something hard and resentful.

The fork is cold between his fingers and he carefully spoons some pasta into his mouth. It would be good, rich and filling and flavored with rich herbs, but it turns to ash on his tongue as he studies the curve of Thorn’s jaw as he chews.

The bartender is so good at reading people, honed into a sharp skill from his years as a fighter and then perfected by evenings of people-watching behind the bar. Thorn is so easy to read, at least to him, but something now is blocking his literacy. His gaze probably burns the pretty man’s face as he stares, willing the pieces to come together in a way that makes sense, but they just won’t. Casimir’s admission, the wound he had inadvertently dealt his companion, shattered his understanding. What is he thinking now?

His body flares with adrenaline, sure he ruined something precious and fragile, and the leather of the booth squeaks under him as his body carries him off the seat, angled and ready to launch towards the door.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

It brings a sweet relief the second the pesto-tinged bread touches his tongue. Chewing it softly and relaxing a bit further once he swallows it down, it’s a promise of more food that brings forth his appetite that has been silenced for the majority of the day. He sets the bread back down in the pool of pesto, plucking up his fork while he feels the intense stare Casimir has on his face, like he’s being studied. He’s not entirely sure why, but he tries to be as normal as can be about it, taking a bite of the potato pasta and chews it a little slower.

He thinks everything is going fine, like the boundary he crossed hours ago isn’t going to come kick him in the face again, but before that thought can even settle he hears the creak of the leather seat of the booth. His eyes shoot up, brows pinching in confusion, only to be met with the back of the booth to face him rather than the charming, quiet and stubbornly handsome face that had been staring back.

Instead, he sees the bartender’s back as he retreats as though he’s aimed for the door. And for a second, Thorn thinks he’s blown it all up. That he wouldn’t be able to face the bar again and see him and watch him work and play this will he, won’t he game that Thorn’s become so attached to. He’s sliding off the seat of the booth before he knows it, really, swallowing down his bite and snags their jackets before he’s chasing after Cas. It makes it so he doesn’t reach him until the bartender’s reached the door, and with a passing sound of can we get ‘em to go, actually? called over his shoulder to the terrified waiter, Thorn finally reaches him when the bartender’s already opened the door.

And now, the courtesan has two choices. He can either make a scene and try to tug him back in, but knowing what he thinks he knows, Thorn is confident it would ruin everything he’s tried to do tonight. So instead, the shorter, thinner, less muscular man barrels into Casimir’s back, bolstered by the makeshift pillow of their jackets in front of him. He’s so much stronger and harder than Thorn’s anticipating, but he does his best to try and push him toward the corner of the entrance in the quiet street, before his jeweled hands reach to try and catch him and keep him from running. “They’re wrappin’ it up for us. We can eat somewhere quieter?” Comes the suggestion, breathless from his attempt at pushing a man that felt like he was made out of solid steel. And when he looks up at Casimir’s face, there’s something almost helpless in his gaze that streaks through, unintentional and raw. “Please?” Just let me spend a day with you.

The plea comes voluntary, unplanned. And it was something that Thorn very rarely said with meaning unless it was asked of him. He wonders if Casimir would know the difference.

Hawthorn

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

i fell in love with a war

His retreat is going soundly (because that's what it is, a strategic retreat, he's not running away) and he's cleared the door and thinks he's home free, safe from the mess he's made and Thorn's doubtless ruminating dislike of him, when a bony body crashes into his and nearly sends him stumbling off his feet. Casimir whirls around with his fists already up, ready to cold-clock whoever rushed him on this street on a night like this, but freezes the instant he sees Thorn's face. Half-stunned, half-still gearing for some sort of fight, Casimir acquiesces as the smaller man hustles him to a quieter corner, though he's half-certain the lithe courtesan is only bringing him there to stab or shank him because that's the kind of cesspool of a brain Thorn is trying to spend an evening with. 

It's the touch of Thorn's hands that startle him into malleability. Warm, even through the fabric of his shirt, and gentle even as he tries to manhandle the larger bartender into privacy, they sear where they make contact just like they did earlier that day. Casimir's brain once again devolves into fizzling, nonfunctioning sparks as he tries to reconcile the touch with his overwhelming lack of it. When he finally manages to get a handle on himself, he's breathing heavily, the heady rush of the beginnings of a street match rising to his brain and focusing his eyes into hunter's slits. It isn't until he sees Thorn's chest rising and falling, breathless for the second time that day because of Casimir, that his heart finally slows into something that can provide blood to his brain enough for him to think. 

There's something there in Thorn's face he's never seen there before, raw and pleading, and the cracked please buries a blade into his gut. He didn't think it was a word Thorn even knew, much less could wield with the passionate emphasis he did now, and it makes Casimir feel-- 

Guilt. It floods through him, an endless ocean, wild and untamed. There's always a hint of it lingering in his gut ever since-- (no) but it rears now, overwhelming his blood and setting his eyes hard and open and bleeding. Someone like Thorn shouldn’t be racing after someone like him and the fact that he does, that Thorn sees something in him worth chasing, twists the blade deeper.

”Why?” He asks for the second time, choked and wild, and he doesn’t mean why should he stay, but Why Thorn would want him to. ”You’re so—“ His voice breaks off and his eyes search Thorn’s for the right word. ”Bright,” He eventually settles on. ”Good. You’re so— good. And I’m not. And it’s hard. For me. To trust it.”

It’s maybe the most words he’s said in succession in five years, and his throat burns from it.

Casimir

and nobody told me it ended

on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose

He should expect the reaction, the standoff of the whirling bartender and the lithe courtesan. But Thorn isn’t a fighter, he never has been. He’s a healer. He heals and he helps, and in exchange all he’s ever asked for was an experience, a story. So as Cas whirls toward him, fists up and itching for a fight, Thorn reaches for those fists, to the arms full of tension that he snags, uncaring of the consequences.

He studies Cas’ face in the dark edge of the entry way of the restaurant on the street, finding something there like apprehension. He also can see the way the bartender seems to give in — no, he’s cracking. And Thorn wonders if it’s his glittering hands that have the power to take someone like him down.

But he’s a healer, and he might not be around King’s End that much longer, so he might as well shoot his shot now while he gets the most conversation he’s ever gotten from the bartender, even if it meant he had to corner him in a tight space.

He calls him bright. And it sinks somewhere deep in Thorn’s chest, warm and sweet. But then Cas’ explaining that it’s hard for him to trust that Thorn means well, and the muscles flare in his jaw as he works it for a second, trying to figure out just what he can say to get him to trust him. “Cas.. You can trust me. I—” he’s about to say he’s not going anywhere, but that might be a lie, so he shifts gears rapidly. “I like you. I’ve liked you for awhile. And I guess I just want to get t’know you. I don’t care if you don’t think you’re good. You’re good to me, an’ ya always have been.”

Hawthorn

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