i fell in love with a war
His retreat is going soundly (because that's what it is, a strategic retreat, he's not running away) and he's cleared the door and thinks he's home free, safe from the mess he's made and Thorn's doubtless ruminating dislike of him, when a bony body crashes into his and nearly sends him stumbling off his feet. Casimir whirls around with his fists already up, ready to cold-clock whoever rushed him on this street on a night like this, but freezes the instant he sees Thorn's face. Half-stunned, half-still gearing for some sort of fight, Casimir acquiesces as the smaller man hustles him to a quieter corner, though he's half-certain the lithe courtesan is only bringing him there to stab or shank him because that's the kind of cesspool of a brain Thorn is trying to spend an evening with.
It's the touch of Thorn's hands that startle him into malleability. Warm, even through the fabric of his shirt, and gentle even as he tries to manhandle the larger bartender into privacy, they sear where they make contact just like they did earlier that day. Casimir's brain once again devolves into fizzling, nonfunctioning sparks as he tries to reconcile the touch with his overwhelming lack of it. When he finally manages to get a handle on himself, he's breathing heavily, the heady rush of the beginnings of a street match rising to his brain and focusing his eyes into hunter's slits. It isn't until he sees Thorn's chest rising and falling, breathless for the second time that day because of Casimir, that his heart finally slows into something that can provide blood to his brain enough for him to think.
There's something there in Thorn's face he's never seen there before, raw and pleading, and the cracked please buries a blade into his gut. He didn't think it was a word Thorn even knew, much less could wield with the passionate emphasis he did now, and it makes Casimir feel--
Guilt. It floods through him, an endless ocean, wild and untamed. There's always a hint of it lingering in his gut ever since-- (no) but it rears now, overwhelming his blood and setting his eyes hard and open and bleeding. Someone like Thorn shouldn’t be racing after someone like him and the fact that he does, that Thorn sees something in him worth chasing, twists the blade deeper.
”Why?” He asks for the second time, choked and wild, and he doesn’t mean why should he stay, but Why Thorn would want him to. ”You’re so—“ His voice breaks off and his eyes search Thorn’s for the right word. ”Bright,” He eventually settles on. ”Good. You’re so— good. And I’m not. And it’s hard. For me. To trust it.”
It’s maybe the most words he’s said in succession in five years, and his throat burns from it.
It's the touch of Thorn's hands that startle him into malleability. Warm, even through the fabric of his shirt, and gentle even as he tries to manhandle the larger bartender into privacy, they sear where they make contact just like they did earlier that day. Casimir's brain once again devolves into fizzling, nonfunctioning sparks as he tries to reconcile the touch with his overwhelming lack of it. When he finally manages to get a handle on himself, he's breathing heavily, the heady rush of the beginnings of a street match rising to his brain and focusing his eyes into hunter's slits. It isn't until he sees Thorn's chest rising and falling, breathless for the second time that day because of Casimir, that his heart finally slows into something that can provide blood to his brain enough for him to think.
There's something there in Thorn's face he's never seen there before, raw and pleading, and the cracked please buries a blade into his gut. He didn't think it was a word Thorn even knew, much less could wield with the passionate emphasis he did now, and it makes Casimir feel--
Guilt. It floods through him, an endless ocean, wild and untamed. There's always a hint of it lingering in his gut ever since-- (no) but it rears now, overwhelming his blood and setting his eyes hard and open and bleeding. Someone like Thorn shouldn’t be racing after someone like him and the fact that he does, that Thorn sees something in him worth chasing, twists the blade deeper.
”Why?” He asks for the second time, choked and wild, and he doesn’t mean why should he stay, but Why Thorn would want him to. ”You’re so—“ His voice breaks off and his eyes search Thorn’s for the right word. ”Bright,” He eventually settles on. ”Good. You’re so— good. And I’m not. And it’s hard. For me. To trust it.”
It’s maybe the most words he’s said in succession in five years, and his throat burns from it.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
