i fell in love with a war
Casimir wants to shoot back a dry look that tells Thorn he's not nearly as clever or charming as the must think himself to be, and to put that tongue back in his mouth before he made him, but he's trying much, much harder to look like he isn't about to faint from the utter surprise of the signpost whisking him off to an entirely new location. He catches himself before he can miss a step and straightens up quickly with the muscle memory of someone who had been knocked to the ground too many times for it to truly hurt, but his eyes widen a fraction at the sight around him. Stomach whirling, he throws a poisonous glower at Thorn who, of course, looks completely unaffected and continues flapping his lips with innocuous nonsense like nothing totally bizarre had just happened.
"You're not creative," He bites out and he hopes it stings as bad as his eyes do from the inertia of the abrupt travel. The street around them is utterly different from the one they just left, cozy and domestic, people walking merrily together talking about pleasant nothings. It seems like something out of a storybook, it seems, some bedtime story filled with platitudes for sleepless children needing reassurance the world is a wonderful place. The scenery in front of him is stark against his memories of Torchline, each of those lined with blood and sand and grit and pain.
He sweeps behind Thorn, following now, just a step too far behind to truly be drawn into conversation without the man in front having to contort his head to see him. In that blindspot, he settles himself back into his body, breathing in the cold air deep until it filled his lungs with something biting and grounding. Then, he exhales sharply, turning his attention squarely to the man in front of him. The back of Thorn's neck is flushed, a bright, cosy red heightened only by the warm light illuminating their way. Was it the drink or the weather? Or perhaps Casimir was right about that fever. It would explain why the man's behavior had toed into abnormal that day.
When it was clear the restaurant was straight ahead, Casimir utilizes those long legs of him to briskly burst a few paces ahead of Thorn, absentmindedly opening the door and letting the man pass through ahead of him. A chivalric gesture that is entirely selfish; in the lingering of the door, Casimir considers booking it one final time, leaving Thorn to this quest by himself. It wasn't like the conversation's one-sidedness would change with or without him being there. The rush of warmth that bursts from the door upon it opening is too tempting to turn from, though, and Casimir follows Thorn in with only a touch of reluctance in his step.
"You're not creative," He bites out and he hopes it stings as bad as his eyes do from the inertia of the abrupt travel. The street around them is utterly different from the one they just left, cozy and domestic, people walking merrily together talking about pleasant nothings. It seems like something out of a storybook, it seems, some bedtime story filled with platitudes for sleepless children needing reassurance the world is a wonderful place. The scenery in front of him is stark against his memories of Torchline, each of those lined with blood and sand and grit and pain.
He sweeps behind Thorn, following now, just a step too far behind to truly be drawn into conversation without the man in front having to contort his head to see him. In that blindspot, he settles himself back into his body, breathing in the cold air deep until it filled his lungs with something biting and grounding. Then, he exhales sharply, turning his attention squarely to the man in front of him. The back of Thorn's neck is flushed, a bright, cosy red heightened only by the warm light illuminating their way. Was it the drink or the weather? Or perhaps Casimir was right about that fever. It would explain why the man's behavior had toed into abnormal that day.
When it was clear the restaurant was straight ahead, Casimir utilizes those long legs of him to briskly burst a few paces ahead of Thorn, absentmindedly opening the door and letting the man pass through ahead of him. A chivalric gesture that is entirely selfish; in the lingering of the door, Casimir considers booking it one final time, leaving Thorn to this quest by himself. It wasn't like the conversation's one-sidedness would change with or without him being there. The rush of warmth that bursts from the door upon it opening is too tempting to turn from, though, and Casimir follows Thorn in with only a touch of reluctance in his step.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
