i fell in love with a war
Why not?
It’s not an unreasonable question, all things considered. Thorn stands tall, arms crossed, stubbornly still on the wrong side of the bar, and Casimir can’t even fault him. He could even respect it if the obstinance wasn’t turned against him. The sharp curve of Thorn’s jaw lifts, and Casimir finds his body slinking towards the man again and he feels very much like a fighter circling his opponent. Thorn’s change in stance feels more like a challenge, and it’s as interesting a change as it is terrifying.
His footsteps are slow and silent against the ground of the bar, and his eyes flicker down Thorn’s body and back again. When he lands barely a foot away from the courtesan, he can smell the slight lingering notes of sandalwood and whiskey. Casimir’s head tilts sideways and down, just off an edge off straight, and appraises Thorn. If Thorn wanted to play with fire, Casimir was going to hold him to his game and see how long Thorn’s gracious fingers would hold before the smoldered and caught aflame.
He holds the silence in his own scarred hands, nurturing it, staring down Thorn all the while. Around them, the bar seems to grow still, the fireplace refusing to crackle and the wind to blow. Inside Casimir’s gut, the panic turns to adrenaline, his vision sharpening from the increased awareness that always comes at the beginning of a fight.
His breath stills in his chest, trying to recenter himself. This isn’t a fight, he reminds himself. Thorn isn’t an opponent. Just… trying to find a weakness. An opening. The question burns in his throat, thick and bitter like blood from a broken nose.
”Why?” He spits out finally. It’s one-part accusation, one-part desperation, and he looks to see how Thorn’s face changes at the asking.
It’s not an unreasonable question, all things considered. Thorn stands tall, arms crossed, stubbornly still on the wrong side of the bar, and Casimir can’t even fault him. He could even respect it if the obstinance wasn’t turned against him. The sharp curve of Thorn’s jaw lifts, and Casimir finds his body slinking towards the man again and he feels very much like a fighter circling his opponent. Thorn’s change in stance feels more like a challenge, and it’s as interesting a change as it is terrifying.
His footsteps are slow and silent against the ground of the bar, and his eyes flicker down Thorn’s body and back again. When he lands barely a foot away from the courtesan, he can smell the slight lingering notes of sandalwood and whiskey. Casimir’s head tilts sideways and down, just off an edge off straight, and appraises Thorn. If Thorn wanted to play with fire, Casimir was going to hold him to his game and see how long Thorn’s gracious fingers would hold before the smoldered and caught aflame.
He holds the silence in his own scarred hands, nurturing it, staring down Thorn all the while. Around them, the bar seems to grow still, the fireplace refusing to crackle and the wind to blow. Inside Casimir’s gut, the panic turns to adrenaline, his vision sharpening from the increased awareness that always comes at the beginning of a fight.
His breath stills in his chest, trying to recenter himself. This isn’t a fight, he reminds himself. Thorn isn’t an opponent. Just… trying to find a weakness. An opening. The question burns in his throat, thick and bitter like blood from a broken nose.
”Why?” He spits out finally. It’s one-part accusation, one-part desperation, and he looks to see how Thorn’s face changes at the asking.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
