i fell in love with a war
The confidence Thorn has waltzing into this restaurant is utterly astounding and Casimir follows him to the booth he selected, not feeling entirely unlike a lost puppy trying to find someone to lead them somewhere safe and familiar. His blue-green eyes sharpen in the low lighting of the restaurant, taking in the place and letting the strangeness of it fill his senses. It smells like candlewax and pizza and herbs, and people murmur in quiet conversation over plentiful portions, and it's so unlike the House of Midnight his head almost reels from it. Where the brothel is all whispered words and flowery scents in the air, this place is open and friendly.
He takes Thorn's coat, thankful to have something tangible and helpful to do with his hands, and he's surprised that the courtier caught his desire to do it in the recesses of his eye. When his eyes had caught the silhouette of it when arriving at the table, it had seemed right and normal to offer to take it -- two things Casimir was terrible at being -- but the offer was lodged in his throat alongside all his other words. There's no secret desire to take Thorn's clothes off underlying his movement, despite how Thorn may be preparing to tease him that later, just a deep necessity to do something with his hands, and to do something helpful at that. To be the person his mother had wanted him to be, once.
It scares him that Thorn caught that in his eye, has learned to read him so effortlessly.
The jacket is warm from Thorn's body heat under his hands, soft and grounding and real, and he places it gingerly on some small hooks by the booth where coats presumably go. He slithers out of his own and lands softly on the worn cushion of the booth, the plush seating curving under the rough weight of his body. Flushing slightly from the heat in this room, his body regulating from the rough winds outside, a finger drifts up to his throat and undoes the top button, his jagged, brutal scar peeking out in all its horrible glory across his throat. When he tilts his head to study the menu, a flash of the tattoo winding the top of his neck catches under the light.
Through his lashes, he studies the tattooed man as he stretches with a feline ease that near astounds him. In his silk, sheer clothing and dark-rimmed eyes, Thorn glimmers like wine under a sunny windowsill, utterly at ease. Casimir gazes at him, a touch incredulous, admiring his ability to chameleon himself to look like he belonged at every place his graceful body brought him -- while still, somehow, being utterly himself. His eyes drift back to the door while Thorn reads the menu, debating his dinner the way scholars would debate a new academic discovery.
He takes Thorn's coat, thankful to have something tangible and helpful to do with his hands, and he's surprised that the courtier caught his desire to do it in the recesses of his eye. When his eyes had caught the silhouette of it when arriving at the table, it had seemed right and normal to offer to take it -- two things Casimir was terrible at being -- but the offer was lodged in his throat alongside all his other words. There's no secret desire to take Thorn's clothes off underlying his movement, despite how Thorn may be preparing to tease him that later, just a deep necessity to do something with his hands, and to do something helpful at that. To be the person his mother had wanted him to be, once.
It scares him that Thorn caught that in his eye, has learned to read him so effortlessly.
The jacket is warm from Thorn's body heat under his hands, soft and grounding and real, and he places it gingerly on some small hooks by the booth where coats presumably go. He slithers out of his own and lands softly on the worn cushion of the booth, the plush seating curving under the rough weight of his body. Flushing slightly from the heat in this room, his body regulating from the rough winds outside, a finger drifts up to his throat and undoes the top button, his jagged, brutal scar peeking out in all its horrible glory across his throat. When he tilts his head to study the menu, a flash of the tattoo winding the top of his neck catches under the light.
Through his lashes, he studies the tattooed man as he stretches with a feline ease that near astounds him. In his silk, sheer clothing and dark-rimmed eyes, Thorn glimmers like wine under a sunny windowsill, utterly at ease. Casimir gazes at him, a touch incredulous, admiring his ability to chameleon himself to look like he belonged at every place his graceful body brought him -- while still, somehow, being utterly himself. His eyes drift back to the door while Thorn reads the menu, debating his dinner the way scholars would debate a new academic discovery.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
