i fell in love with a war
Casimir's eyes the curve of Thorn's bobbing throat as the water from the glass disappears, averting his gaze when Thorn coughs and starts. His throat is burning from his words, perhaps the most he's said in a single day in all his time as a bartender here, and it feels rusty and cracking from disuse. For every thread Thorn unravels within himself, drinking and wondering and chatting as he is, Casimir wounds another notch up. He thinks he's unraveling too, in a way, grasping at shattered fragments with bleeding fingers.
"Shouldn't miss it," He clarifies, perhaps a little unnecessarily, and takes Thorn's glass back to refill it just so he has something to do with his hands. The words claw out of him, burrowing out of some long-dormant husk of truth and care he's fought so hard to bury. The water spills into the glass, the condensation building on the outside and wetting Casimir's hands. He flicks off a droplet before setting it back on the counter, pushing it decisively towards Thorn. Some of the water pushes itself over the edge, landing on the counter.
Comfortable. The quiet, soft dirt of a grave is comfortable. The stillness of the night is comfortable. The complacency of a long-settled, cushioned chair is comfortable. There's more he can say here but the words don't come when called and for the first time he wonders if the neutral, sometimes affronted, sometimes sarcastic, but altogether silence is less of a choice than he thinks. He's always been better with his hands, his body, his movement than with sweet-honey words.
He's not sure Thorn knows how much he sees behind his post at the bar, his ever-vigilant gaze constantly on the prowl for familiars and threats and trouble and joy. He's not sure Thorn knows how much he knows him from the dozens of evenings spent with the courtesan splayed on the bar, filling the silence as much as Casimir preserves it.
His fingers curl under his palms where they're pressed on the mahogany bar and his throat screams. It takes a few minutes for him to muster the words up, body still like a calculating fighter, eyes curiously lingering on Thorn's shifting body. "Life's worth more than fun," he finally spits out, the rasp of his voice mixing with the crackling of the fireplace.
"Shouldn't miss it," He clarifies, perhaps a little unnecessarily, and takes Thorn's glass back to refill it just so he has something to do with his hands. The words claw out of him, burrowing out of some long-dormant husk of truth and care he's fought so hard to bury. The water spills into the glass, the condensation building on the outside and wetting Casimir's hands. He flicks off a droplet before setting it back on the counter, pushing it decisively towards Thorn. Some of the water pushes itself over the edge, landing on the counter.
Comfortable. The quiet, soft dirt of a grave is comfortable. The stillness of the night is comfortable. The complacency of a long-settled, cushioned chair is comfortable. There's more he can say here but the words don't come when called and for the first time he wonders if the neutral, sometimes affronted, sometimes sarcastic, but altogether silence is less of a choice than he thinks. He's always been better with his hands, his body, his movement than with sweet-honey words.
He's not sure Thorn knows how much he sees behind his post at the bar, his ever-vigilant gaze constantly on the prowl for familiars and threats and trouble and joy. He's not sure Thorn knows how much he knows him from the dozens of evenings spent with the courtesan splayed on the bar, filling the silence as much as Casimir preserves it.
His fingers curl under his palms where they're pressed on the mahogany bar and his throat screams. It takes a few minutes for him to muster the words up, body still like a calculating fighter, eyes curiously lingering on Thorn's shifting body. "Life's worth more than fun," he finally spits out, the rasp of his voice mixing with the crackling of the fireplace.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
