i fell in love with a war
Casimir watches Thorn fiddle with the rings on his fingers, the glittering metals catching the light. It's easier to look at them than to meet Thorn's eyes again, the naked honesty bared and open within them, light like sunlight on the waves of the ocean sparking. He can't tell if it's the whiskey moving through the courtesan or something else, something more dangerous to have. Something like guilt spreads within him, oil floating through water, dancing and heavy at it sinks to the bottom of his gut. Those ringed fingers should reach out and grasp this future ahead of him, not encircle an empty glass of whiskey at Casimir's bar. The silence crosses his throat like a wicked slash.
Thorn responds to words Casimir didn't quite say, grasping at meaning still stuck behind barbs. How had he been able to hear what was still stuck behind layers of dried blood in Casimir's throat? Or was it just what he had needed to hear, plucked out of the sarcastic, intentional blankness of Casimir's tone? His eyes drag back up to meet Thorn's, cold and hard, light pools of unreadable blankness. Something has been shuttered behind them.
Silently, with his boxer's grace, he reaches behind the bar and fills a glass of water. The sound of it scraping against the counter seems to fill the room, and he slides it a few careful inches away from Thorn's graceful, twisting hands. This time he doesn't make a sound as the glass gets passed, doesn't tap the counter or huff or scoff, just a ghost in the flickering hue of the bar. He stays there few another silent minute before the neutral slash of his mouth murmurs a quiet, sarcastic, "You shouldn't."
It comes out with the same dark levity as all his other snark has, just another quip from the world-weary bartender, but there's a graveness to it that bleeds through, and his eyes darken with something unreadable. They flick towards the full, cool glass of water before returning to Thorn's kohl-lined stare, unwavering and intense.
Thorn responds to words Casimir didn't quite say, grasping at meaning still stuck behind barbs. How had he been able to hear what was still stuck behind layers of dried blood in Casimir's throat? Or was it just what he had needed to hear, plucked out of the sarcastic, intentional blankness of Casimir's tone? His eyes drag back up to meet Thorn's, cold and hard, light pools of unreadable blankness. Something has been shuttered behind them.
Silently, with his boxer's grace, he reaches behind the bar and fills a glass of water. The sound of it scraping against the counter seems to fill the room, and he slides it a few careful inches away from Thorn's graceful, twisting hands. This time he doesn't make a sound as the glass gets passed, doesn't tap the counter or huff or scoff, just a ghost in the flickering hue of the bar. He stays there few another silent minute before the neutral slash of his mouth murmurs a quiet, sarcastic, "You shouldn't."
It comes out with the same dark levity as all his other snark has, just another quip from the world-weary bartender, but there's a graveness to it that bleeds through, and his eyes darken with something unreadable. They flick towards the full, cool glass of water before returning to Thorn's kohl-lined stare, unwavering and intense.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
