i fell in love with a war
Casimir studies the food on his plate, the random thing he pointed at in the menu turning out to be some sort of meaty pasta. He’s really the type to eat anything — as demonstrated by his nightly meals cobbling together whatever he can from the House of Midnight’s stores — and it steaks hot and appetizing on his plate. The green sauce, however, looks suspicious, but Thorn took a huge bite without wincing so it was unlikely to be poisoned. Almost delicately, like trying to grasp at a writhing snake, he picks up the other half of the bread Thorn tore for him and submerges a corner into the sauce. He lifts it to his mouth and chews carefully, savoring the way the cheese floats across his tongue; it’s much better than the gruel and meals of detritus he feeds himself with, and he tries not to allow the enjoyment to show on his face.
Thorn digs into his meal with the gusto of someone who had been drinking on an empty stomach, but there’s a fervor and intensity in the movement of his hands that smack of someone trying to keep themselves busy. His eyes no longer linger on Casimir’s scowling face like it’s a new, sparkling commodity, and Casimir would be relieved to slink back into his careful non-existence, but the worry that fills his chest makes him wonder if that marveling gaze has been replaced with something hard and resentful.
The fork is cold between his fingers and he carefully spoons some pasta into his mouth. It would be good, rich and filling and flavored with rich herbs, but it turns to ash on his tongue as he studies the curve of Thorn’s jaw as he chews.
The bartender is so good at reading people, honed into a sharp skill from his years as a fighter and then perfected by evenings of people-watching behind the bar. Thorn is so easy to read, at least to him, but something now is blocking his literacy. His gaze probably burns the pretty man’s face as he stares, willing the pieces to come together in a way that makes sense, but they just won’t. Casimir’s admission, the wound he had inadvertently dealt his companion, shattered his understanding. What is he thinking now?
His body flares with adrenaline, sure he ruined something precious and fragile, and the leather of the booth squeaks under him as his body carries him off the seat, angled and ready to launch towards the door.
Thorn digs into his meal with the gusto of someone who had been drinking on an empty stomach, but there’s a fervor and intensity in the movement of his hands that smack of someone trying to keep themselves busy. His eyes no longer linger on Casimir’s scowling face like it’s a new, sparkling commodity, and Casimir would be relieved to slink back into his careful non-existence, but the worry that fills his chest makes him wonder if that marveling gaze has been replaced with something hard and resentful.
The fork is cold between his fingers and he carefully spoons some pasta into his mouth. It would be good, rich and filling and flavored with rich herbs, but it turns to ash on his tongue as he studies the curve of Thorn’s jaw as he chews.
The bartender is so good at reading people, honed into a sharp skill from his years as a fighter and then perfected by evenings of people-watching behind the bar. Thorn is so easy to read, at least to him, but something now is blocking his literacy. His gaze probably burns the pretty man’s face as he stares, willing the pieces to come together in a way that makes sense, but they just won’t. Casimir’s admission, the wound he had inadvertently dealt his companion, shattered his understanding. What is he thinking now?
His body flares with adrenaline, sure he ruined something precious and fragile, and the leather of the booth squeaks under him as his body carries him off the seat, angled and ready to launch towards the door.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
