i fell in love with a war
Casimir is, of course, silent as he takes in Thorn’s explanation, his careful gaze watching the curve of the other man’s hands comb through his hair. He’s noticed, at his post behind the bar, that Thorn leans towards movement, even in moments of stillness or contemplation. Now is no different for either of them, Thorn’s hands searching for something to do while Casimir remains utterly, unnervingly stagnant. Perhaps that’s why Casimir’s thoughts warp and struggle to consume Thorn’s admission; it seems like running, but to Casimir, running means staying still. But not to Thorn, he thought. Not to others.
He does remember the shape of the blonde, a face poking into his bar and a sense of familiarity in the place. Someone whose eyes skipped over him, accepting Casimir as another adornment of the brothel, but never with malice, and always with affection for Thorn. With the mention of Colt comes the slow, building realization that this is real – this is not a scheme, nor a flight of fancy, and though Thorn could be running from something, it seems more likely that he’s running towards.
Casimir’s feet are stuck to the floor as the world moves around him, and he thinks of corpses. The silence between them once again grows, singed with the scent of blood, and he wonders if Thorn can smell it. His tidy head of curls, swept back and in order, tilt upwards as his head returns to neutral and his cold, cold hands find the whiskey bottle behind the bar. His hands pull Thorn’s glass towards him and the bottle send a steady stream of gold into it, two strong fingers worth, and it gets pushed back across the counter. Casimir taps the counter twice and then leans back, arms once again crossed at his chest.
He jerks his head in the smallest of nods, indicating the gift on the counter, eyes cool and guarded. The curve of his shoulders are set in defense, as if Thorn were about to swing a punch, and the set of his jaw dares Thorn to question it. It’s as close to a follow-up question as he can gather, folding himself into the silence he wears like a shield and a funeral shroud.
He does remember the shape of the blonde, a face poking into his bar and a sense of familiarity in the place. Someone whose eyes skipped over him, accepting Casimir as another adornment of the brothel, but never with malice, and always with affection for Thorn. With the mention of Colt comes the slow, building realization that this is real – this is not a scheme, nor a flight of fancy, and though Thorn could be running from something, it seems more likely that he’s running towards.
Casimir’s feet are stuck to the floor as the world moves around him, and he thinks of corpses. The silence between them once again grows, singed with the scent of blood, and he wonders if Thorn can smell it. His tidy head of curls, swept back and in order, tilt upwards as his head returns to neutral and his cold, cold hands find the whiskey bottle behind the bar. His hands pull Thorn’s glass towards him and the bottle send a steady stream of gold into it, two strong fingers worth, and it gets pushed back across the counter. Casimir taps the counter twice and then leans back, arms once again crossed at his chest.
He jerks his head in the smallest of nods, indicating the gift on the counter, eyes cool and guarded. The curve of his shoulders are set in defense, as if Thorn were about to swing a punch, and the set of his jaw dares Thorn to question it. It’s as close to a follow-up question as he can gather, folding himself into the silence he wears like a shield and a funeral shroud.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
