i fell in love with a war
Casimir watches Thorn shake himself off and reset the fine set of his clothes, removing all traces of the confrontation from his affect. His hands are stinging from how tightly he clenched them and his forearms still buzz from the remnants of heat, soemthing under his skin itching and prickling. The sparkling choker on the courtesan’s neck moves back to how it was before, his throat bobbing under his breathing. His stays the same as it was under Casimir’s hold, the curve of it slightly devilish where it shines on a handsome, open face.
There’s a part of him that feels bad for putting his hands on Thorn that way, like he was an unruly customer or someone on the other half of a brawl, especially once the misunderstanding was made clear and the egg was very firmly on Casimir’s face. A different part of him, flaming and flaring, something somehow both cold and hot, wanting and reviling, wants the heat of that gentle touch on his forearms again. There’s guilt, but no regret.
With Thorn on the proper side of the bar, not everything is restored to the world but Casimir can allow himself to breathe normally again. The curve of his shoulders slump slightly, and without thinking, his fingers move to unbutton the tight cuffs of the shirt circling his wrists and folds the fabric of his sleeves up so they rest just under his elbow. It’s a familiar movement, one he’s done hundreds of times when he grows just a little too warm, but he as he realizes he does it, he feels oddly exposed. Now, too aware of the movement, he doesn’t push them back down, but instead looks staunchly ahead like nothing had happened and Thorn hadn’t somehow reached into his chest and twisted.
At Thorn’s presented choices, he levels a flat stare, crossing his arms across his chest. Does Thorn think the bartender was going to choose? He allows his silence to fill the shape of an answer.
There’s a part of him that feels bad for putting his hands on Thorn that way, like he was an unruly customer or someone on the other half of a brawl, especially once the misunderstanding was made clear and the egg was very firmly on Casimir’s face. A different part of him, flaming and flaring, something somehow both cold and hot, wanting and reviling, wants the heat of that gentle touch on his forearms again. There’s guilt, but no regret.
With Thorn on the proper side of the bar, not everything is restored to the world but Casimir can allow himself to breathe normally again. The curve of his shoulders slump slightly, and without thinking, his fingers move to unbutton the tight cuffs of the shirt circling his wrists and folds the fabric of his sleeves up so they rest just under his elbow. It’s a familiar movement, one he’s done hundreds of times when he grows just a little too warm, but he as he realizes he does it, he feels oddly exposed. Now, too aware of the movement, he doesn’t push them back down, but instead looks staunchly ahead like nothing had happened and Thorn hadn’t somehow reached into his chest and twisted.
At Thorn’s presented choices, he levels a flat stare, crossing his arms across his chest. Does Thorn think the bartender was going to choose? He allows his silence to fill the shape of an answer.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
