as i got older i learned i'm a drinker
Though the frigid winds of the budding days of Flowerbirth slam against the windows of the brothel, inside, the air always resides a few degrees above pleasantly warm. Casimir has long suspected that the temperature of the House of Midnight, which always skews on the warmer side, is a strategy to encourage patrons to shed as many layers as possible. Casimir, though, has never acquiesced to the strategy, and today is no different. His muscular arms are ensconced firmly within the dark fabric of his shirt, but if someone were to squint – and many do, trying to solve the enigma of the quiet, severe-faced man behind the bar – they would find the end of a tendril of his back tattoo snaking up to caress his neck, just barely hidden under the collar of his dark shirt. His mysterious scar, an ugly slash across the jugular, shines in the low light of the bar.
The lingering revelry from LongNight must hang over their usual customers, as the place is quieter than normal, the usual clash and clatter of joyful pursuit lacking in the still air. He doesn't mind the quiet, the reprieve from the chaos and troublemakers, but the stillness presses against his mind. In truth, he doesn't mind the business either, letting everything in front of his bar wash over him like a wave pushing and pulling on rocks.
Even rock can erode, though, with enough regularity of pressure, and he watches Thorn (of the 'in-his-side') variety sway up to his bar. Though he would never admit it (or anything) to the man, Casimir likes their little game. Thorn pokes him to see if he blushes or bleeds, and Casimir does neither, presenting a stone-faced lack of reaction to every attempt at wheedling under his skin. His part of the game, his steady silence and unimpressed facade broken by the occasionally brutal comment, provides him just as much fun as Thorn's side presumably does for him, and he considers it a victory point in his favor every time his nonplussed eyes graze the amused, twinkling ones of Thorn. The man practically languishes on his bar, and though the day is quiet, Casimir does not expect to be bored for much longer.
He pours Thorn's requested drink in a steady stream into a newly-cleaned glass, calm and collected as ever. Thorn seems less... sparkling today, something weighing on his shoulders beyond just the light drapes of decorative fabric. He says he doesn't want to hear it, but Casimir knows he does, so obviously Thorn will not be hearing it from him. He quirks a slight eyebrow at Thorn's bowed head, knowing the buried face will not catch the reaction. Casimir's words are a precious resource, barely doled out and cutting when they are, and Thorn will have to work harder to get something out of him.
The glass makes a firm, quiet thud on the countertop where Casimir places it, and he knows Thorn will hear it for the response it is.
Casimir
sometimes a drink feels like family
