i fell in love with a war
Thorn's throat bobs as he takes a sip of the water and Casimir follows, grateful for something to do with himself that isn't just sitting and staring. He wasn't very good at this; just existing in a place, allowing himself to unwind and unravel with someone friendly and familiar. At the bar, he had a purpose, a place, and a clear set of rules and expectations to follow. It was easy to stay within the lines of what he was supposed to be, and nobody expected him to be any different. Well, except for Thorn, who seemed to have made it his sole purpose to push Casimir over that line and sprawling into unknown territories designed specifically to torture him. The water is cool against his lips and he drains half the glass in a single pour before settling it back down on the table. The condensation forms a little ring of water where it stands, and he remembers Thorn's graceful, ringed fingers dragging their way through a similar ring just a few hours ago. Had it really been only a few hours since Thorn ripped apart everything established between them and forced it open into a new, strange shape?
The press of this new shape, this new relationship, this friendship bears into Casimir, breathing down the back of his neck. The sound of the dramatic groan falling from Thorn's lip is not unusual, and sends the bartender's eyes flickering into a minute eye-roll for his efforts, but the familiarity of the joke almost puts him at ease. They can still be Thorn and Casimir, separated by a thick slab of wood. They can still be who they were.
He's not even able to convince himself of the lie, and his arms cross against his chest again as a defensive maneuver. His brawn cannot protect him against words, though, as much as his wishes it may. His mouth opens slightly as if to speak, but then closes again. It's not an intentional fake-out like it was before, (or an edging? as Thorn called it), but likely has that effect anyone. Or, he looks like a fish searching for water, with his throat bobbing from the effort.
Casimir has vowed to make this dinner as difficult as possible for the grinning courtesan, and he does not wish to renege that promise to himself. But, for some reason, Thorn's clean, soft hands are reaching to try and grasp onto Casimir's bloodstained ones; as for why, the bartender truly could not say, another than an interest in discovering that which can only hurt him. He wants to slap away the efforts, to growl and warn him off for Thorn's own good and protect him from what hurt Casimir will undoubtedly cause. But, some evil, whispering, selfish part of himself wants to reach back.
It can only hurt him. It can only hurt them both.
In the flickering light of the restaurant, Thorn's gaze alight with amusement and genuine pleasure at Casimir's company (for some bizarre reason), the man's resolve cracks just slightly.
"This is hard for me," He admits, his voice a low murmur, the first he voices in this strange, hallowed place. He feels like they linger in the air like the smoke from the candles before disappearing to wherever harsh truths go after they're said. The admission stings his throat and he tries hard to suppress a wince, the barbs of the words' hooked edges digging into his throat. They force themselves out of him anyway, uncaring of how he may bleed, desperate to be heard.
The press of this new shape, this new relationship, this friendship bears into Casimir, breathing down the back of his neck. The sound of the dramatic groan falling from Thorn's lip is not unusual, and sends the bartender's eyes flickering into a minute eye-roll for his efforts, but the familiarity of the joke almost puts him at ease. They can still be Thorn and Casimir, separated by a thick slab of wood. They can still be who they were.
He's not even able to convince himself of the lie, and his arms cross against his chest again as a defensive maneuver. His brawn cannot protect him against words, though, as much as his wishes it may. His mouth opens slightly as if to speak, but then closes again. It's not an intentional fake-out like it was before, (or an edging? as Thorn called it), but likely has that effect anyone. Or, he looks like a fish searching for water, with his throat bobbing from the effort.
Casimir has vowed to make this dinner as difficult as possible for the grinning courtesan, and he does not wish to renege that promise to himself. But, for some reason, Thorn's clean, soft hands are reaching to try and grasp onto Casimir's bloodstained ones; as for why, the bartender truly could not say, another than an interest in discovering that which can only hurt him. He wants to slap away the efforts, to growl and warn him off for Thorn's own good and protect him from what hurt Casimir will undoubtedly cause. But, some evil, whispering, selfish part of himself wants to reach back.
It can only hurt him. It can only hurt them both.
In the flickering light of the restaurant, Thorn's gaze alight with amusement and genuine pleasure at Casimir's company (for some bizarre reason), the man's resolve cracks just slightly.
"This is hard for me," He admits, his voice a low murmur, the first he voices in this strange, hallowed place. He feels like they linger in the air like the smoke from the candles before disappearing to wherever harsh truths go after they're said. The admission stings his throat and he tries hard to suppress a wince, the barbs of the words' hooked edges digging into his throat. They force themselves out of him anyway, uncaring of how he may bleed, desperate to be heard.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
