i fell in love with a war
As Thorn ambles closer to Casimir, dancing his way behind the bar and digging through things he is not supposed to be digging through, the bartender carefully keeps his body just a few inches short of close to the other man. He doubts Thorn, in his current wobbly state determined mission, notices how precisely Casimir moves to be just slightly farther away. A habit picked up from his streetfighting years that always served him well behind the bar, he now employs it in a vain effort to keep Thorn away.
When their eyes meet, it takes everything in him not to flinch away. Instead, he lowers his chin so he's bearing into Thorn's gaze, refusing to cow. Thorn's light eyes glimmer with bravery and the kind of decision-making process that only comes when one is a little too deep in the bottle. Not ungently, he wrests the clipboard from Thorn's fingers, moving to hold it against his broad chest.
"No," he says flatly, levelly, trying not to leak in the little bit of panic that has spread into his chest at the thought. His voice is iron-steel and biting, even in its near-whispered volume, and he aims it to hit true at Thorn. In all their years together, playing their game and nipping at each other's heels, Thorn has never suggested moving it away from behind and in front of the bar. In fact, his shambling ignoring of that literal line, moving behind the bar and digging into things that don't concern him, feels too apt a metaphor for the way his ringed, jeweled fingers are starting to pry into the seams of Casimir's carefully sewn skin. He's crossed behind the bar, and with, crossed closer to Casimir.
Once again, as much of their conversation has been tonight, it seems too real to Casimir. Too close to something true. Why would Thorn want to ruin this thing they had? Casimir fumes silently. Like Thorn had said, it was fun, it was comfortable, and--
Casimir had told him there was more to life than having fun. Fuck. He absolutely had not intended to follow his own advice, however, and isn't going to start now.
With a start, he turns away and places the clipboard purposefully on a high shelf, deliberately well out of the other man's reach, muscles shifting under his shirt. He wasn't even sure the drunken courtier would even make it another hour, with the way he was grinning and swaying slightly on his feet. Chances were, in an hour, Casimir would be escorting him to his bed to sleep it off. Until then, he points to the other side of the bar and stares, jaw clenched, steel and warning and a slight hint of fear in his eyes.
When their eyes meet, it takes everything in him not to flinch away. Instead, he lowers his chin so he's bearing into Thorn's gaze, refusing to cow. Thorn's light eyes glimmer with bravery and the kind of decision-making process that only comes when one is a little too deep in the bottle. Not ungently, he wrests the clipboard from Thorn's fingers, moving to hold it against his broad chest.
"No," he says flatly, levelly, trying not to leak in the little bit of panic that has spread into his chest at the thought. His voice is iron-steel and biting, even in its near-whispered volume, and he aims it to hit true at Thorn. In all their years together, playing their game and nipping at each other's heels, Thorn has never suggested moving it away from behind and in front of the bar. In fact, his shambling ignoring of that literal line, moving behind the bar and digging into things that don't concern him, feels too apt a metaphor for the way his ringed, jeweled fingers are starting to pry into the seams of Casimir's carefully sewn skin. He's crossed behind the bar, and with, crossed closer to Casimir.
Once again, as much of their conversation has been tonight, it seems too real to Casimir. Too close to something true. Why would Thorn want to ruin this thing they had? Casimir fumes silently. Like Thorn had said, it was fun, it was comfortable, and--
Casimir had told him there was more to life than having fun. Fuck. He absolutely had not intended to follow his own advice, however, and isn't going to start now.
With a start, he turns away and places the clipboard purposefully on a high shelf, deliberately well out of the other man's reach, muscles shifting under his shirt. He wasn't even sure the drunken courtier would even make it another hour, with the way he was grinning and swaying slightly on his feet. Chances were, in an hour, Casimir would be escorting him to his bed to sleep it off. Until then, he points to the other side of the bar and stares, jaw clenched, steel and warning and a slight hint of fear in his eyes.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
