as i got older i learned i'm a drinker!
Casimir takes in Thorn's complaining the same way he takes in everything else; with a flat, level, and wholly unimpressed gaze. He keeps himself busy behind the bar, cleaning glasses and preparing for a night rush that's likely to never come, but he can't give the illusion he's giving Thorn his undivided attention. He can feel Thorn's cool blue eyes watching him, looking for any give, for any slip of the cards. Casimir doesn't give it to him. The impression of him wasn't wholly inaccurate, for what it was, and Casimir rewards it with a single flicker of his eyes over to Thorn's drooping form. Poured over the counter like that, Casimir is reminded of a flower overburdened by the heat of a summer's day, aching for rain.
In his single look, the stolid bartender could sympathize with Thorn's pity party -- not that he would every give any inkling that he thought so -- and after the nonstop, nightly revelry of LongNight, every slow day afterwards absolutely oozed in pace in comparison. No patrons meant no money meant no tips for Casimir, and more time to think, alone behind the bar, the past pressing up against his back and breathing down his neck like a hungry dog. Despite the haze of pleasure that hung in the air, the luring gorgeous courtesans lounging and languishing like they were having the time of their lives, this was a place of business. And everyone here had to eat.
None of that came out of his mouth, nor reflected on Casimir's face. His hands move, graceful and practiced, to begin slicing lemons, the knife dancing in his fingers with practiced precision. The silence between them continues to grow, Casimir nurturing it until it leaps thick and expectant between them. Finally, just when it seems like the conversation would stay entirely one-sided, he murmurs, "I didn't think you were ever needed."
His voice is as sharp as the knife that split through the lemons. Anyone else could struggle to hear it over the repetitive chopping, but the comment was meant only for one set of ears. It's not mean, how Casimir says it, but it's not soaked in the friendliness something like that should warrant. It's low and sarcastic, a dangling fishhook in front of circling prey. It could hold wonders on its other end, but it may still cut the one who lunges for it.
Casimir looks up from his task, eyes meeting Thorn's and holding them. There's no challenge in them, not like someone may expect. There's nothing in them, nothing that can be read; just flint and a touch of expectation.
Casimir
sometimes a drink feels like family
