i fell in love with a war
Casimir bites back a wince as he sees Thorn's face fold into one of genuine concern, his voice lowering into something quiet and real. Worse, he can see the set of his shoulders tensing and setting back like an acrobat about to perform a trick; it's a tell Thorn has, very slight and barely perceptible, when he's about to morph himself into someone new, to be whoever he thinks the other person wants him to be. Over countless evenings Casimir has seen that tiny shrug as Thorn pours himself into conversations with beautiful strangers, seducing them and letting his words twist and lilt. The move hadn't been used on him in years, though, not since their first meeting when Thorn tried to morph himself into who Casimir wanted to see and got a level, unimpressed look in response.
Gods, this isn't what he wanted. The strangled admission, the waving of the white flag, wasn't supposed to inspire this guilty, low tone in the courtesan. Casimir wants to put his guard up, his fists up against his chin in response to defend against an attack, but he couldn't do that, not when Thorn is looking at him like he needs to fix whatever he thinks he broke. It isn't his fault that it's Casimir that's broken. The wounds within him bleed and bleed and everything they touch stains red and ruined, and here Thorn sits, looking at him like he was the one who wielded the knife even though it was Casimir who rots and ruins. Fuck, he should've just kept his mouth shut and his words locked in the trap in his throat they were so comfortable in. A ghost cannot wield weapons that hurt.
As his jaw works his words up, shifting slightly under his clenched teeth, he wants to run from the mess he's wrought. His eyes look everywhere but Thorn, focusing instead on the humid glass on the table and the beads of water that collect on the outside, sliding down the glass onto the counter where they join the great amorphous blob of the ring under the cup. No matter how hard Casimir concentrates, he cannot morph into that blob and disappear into nothing.
He could run and leave Thorn behind, but the hurt would fester and grow, the injury turning sickly infected. The guilt sits clear on Thorn's face, and though his knuckles itch with the desire to put them up against his chin and press his back to the wall in defense, he knows he cannot in good conscious allow his sin to fester in Thorn's heart.
"Don't do that," An attempt at gentleness, though the tone comes out more strained than he wished, like he's breathing through the pain of a stab wound. "You're... shifting. It's me. Not you." It's all he can push out, and he wonders what Thorn will take from his stilted words, or if he's even realized his silence is more than his half of their game they play.
Gods, this isn't what he wanted. The strangled admission, the waving of the white flag, wasn't supposed to inspire this guilty, low tone in the courtesan. Casimir wants to put his guard up, his fists up against his chin in response to defend against an attack, but he couldn't do that, not when Thorn is looking at him like he needs to fix whatever he thinks he broke. It isn't his fault that it's Casimir that's broken. The wounds within him bleed and bleed and everything they touch stains red and ruined, and here Thorn sits, looking at him like he was the one who wielded the knife even though it was Casimir who rots and ruins. Fuck, he should've just kept his mouth shut and his words locked in the trap in his throat they were so comfortable in. A ghost cannot wield weapons that hurt.
As his jaw works his words up, shifting slightly under his clenched teeth, he wants to run from the mess he's wrought. His eyes look everywhere but Thorn, focusing instead on the humid glass on the table and the beads of water that collect on the outside, sliding down the glass onto the counter where they join the great amorphous blob of the ring under the cup. No matter how hard Casimir concentrates, he cannot morph into that blob and disappear into nothing.
He could run and leave Thorn behind, but the hurt would fester and grow, the injury turning sickly infected. The guilt sits clear on Thorn's face, and though his knuckles itch with the desire to put them up against his chin and press his back to the wall in defense, he knows he cannot in good conscious allow his sin to fester in Thorn's heart.
"Don't do that," An attempt at gentleness, though the tone comes out more strained than he wished, like he's breathing through the pain of a stab wound. "You're... shifting. It's me. Not you." It's all he can push out, and he wonders what Thorn will take from his stilted words, or if he's even realized his silence is more than his half of their game they play.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
