i fell in love with a war
Thorn's fingers play with his lip as he speaks, and Casimir wishes his words didn't sound so much like a question. It would be one think if his outlandish regular were merely telling him he were moving, thank you for all the drinks and good times but see you never, and skipped along his merry way to new horizons. If that were so, Casimir could keep the careful, measured distance he had doled out between him and every person who steps foot into the House of Midnight. He could continue being a fixture, set dressing in other people's stories, and ignore the press of his own against his eyes. But Thorn as if he's floating an idea to someone trusted; no, that's not right. It sounds like he's running. Faced with the crossroads, Thorn looks for absolution, to wash his hands of the choice and allow someone to lead him down the path he would follow. But this choice was not one anyone could make for him, least of all Casimir.
The tenseness in his shoulders begins to unravel, and Casimir slips back into the role he played so adeptly in Thorn's life. As he moves, the silence begins to shift from its heavy thoughtfulness back into the taciturn blankness of an unimpressed bartender, muscles rippling under his shirt as he returns to cleaning glasses. He's always been a mirror to Thorn, a willing receptacle for an unfettered stream of consciousness. He could not, faced with the burden of the man's future, break from that. It would not be fair to Thorn. And, perhaps, he didn't have the strength within him to reach over the counter for anything order than to collect a glass.
He sighs, a nearly imperceptible sound. A number of snarky, biting responses line ready at the back of his throat, an arsenal of deflection to remind Thorn of their roles to one another. Instead, he blinks, long and slow, and collects Thorn's empty glass.
"What do you want me to say to you?" He says, finally, voice a different shade of quiet, a shade of imploring and reflective and soft in a way he doesn't think it has been in years. What role do you need me to play for you? It asks in the underlines of the words. He cannot tell Thorn what to do, cannot allow himself to draw any closer than he is right now; but, he can hold the mirror and deflect Thorn's curious eyes back at him.
The tenseness in his shoulders begins to unravel, and Casimir slips back into the role he played so adeptly in Thorn's life. As he moves, the silence begins to shift from its heavy thoughtfulness back into the taciturn blankness of an unimpressed bartender, muscles rippling under his shirt as he returns to cleaning glasses. He's always been a mirror to Thorn, a willing receptacle for an unfettered stream of consciousness. He could not, faced with the burden of the man's future, break from that. It would not be fair to Thorn. And, perhaps, he didn't have the strength within him to reach over the counter for anything order than to collect a glass.
He sighs, a nearly imperceptible sound. A number of snarky, biting responses line ready at the back of his throat, an arsenal of deflection to remind Thorn of their roles to one another. Instead, he blinks, long and slow, and collects Thorn's empty glass.
"What do you want me to say to you?" He says, finally, voice a different shade of quiet, a shade of imploring and reflective and soft in a way he doesn't think it has been in years. What role do you need me to play for you? It asks in the underlines of the words. He cannot tell Thorn what to do, cannot allow himself to draw any closer than he is right now; but, he can hold the mirror and deflect Thorn's curious eyes back at him.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
