as i got older i learned i'm a drinker
Thorn seems to be unspooling in front of Casimir, taking the heat and the buzz of the whiskey and letting it warm him, even in the pressing heat of the room. He can see the way this small victory, this tiny win of the rare occasion of getting back any kind of response, albeit not a particularly friendly one, draws Thorn in to the excitement of the chase. The reasons why Thorn takes such unfettered pleasure in poking his buttons completely evades Casimir's reasoning — perhaps it's the same reason that drives the bored children he sees daring each other to stick their fingers into mousetraps.
The cogs are whirring in Thorn's head, nearly visible in their calculations, and Casimir readies himself for another attack. With that comment, he used up his allotted word quota for the day, and feels no need to extend himself any farther. After all, he wouldn't want to add more fodder to Thorn's impression of him, did he? Something about absence making the heart grow fonder, and all that. The arrival of those fuckin' squirrels, as Thorn so eloquently groaned, allows Casimir a moment to truly study the figure that so haunted his bar. He moves now with a liveliness he isn't sure entirely comes from the whiskey burning his belly, the golden courage sloshing around in the glass as he gesticulates. What brings someone like Thorn, so light and shining and floating, to the bar each night? It certainly wasn't the quality of the drinks. The man must have an affinity for futile tasks. Maybe next he would enjoy trying to draw blood from a stone.
Maybe, he thinks darkly, Casimir is the one person in the House of Midnight that hasn't fallen head-over-feet for his easy charms. And that must drive him mad. A single batting of Thorn's dark eyelashes couldn't send Casimir tumbling to grovel at his feet. Too bad; Thorn would be so disappointed to find that behind Casimir's steeled gaze was a mess of rot and ruin, blood-soaked hands and a bleeding heart. There are better people for him to poke and prod. For now, Casimir would enjoy his winning streak while he could. Before Thorn learns what is best for him and runs.
Arm's length is the safest place to hold anyone. It's more fun from back there, anyway.
Casimir returns his attention to the lemons, brushing his fingers briefly against the scar that has begun to burn on his throat. He flicks his gaze back up to Thorn and cocks his head nearly imperceptibly, a challenge if someone was looking for it. The game isn't over yet.
Casimir
sometimes a drink feels like family
