i fell in love with a war
Any and all romantic intentions weighing Thorn's admission completely flies over Casimir's head, like an arrow intended for an enemy veering high and hitting a tree instead. His face, usually so schooled in its stone-plated neutrality, morphs into one of total incomprehension. If Thorn had suddenly started speaking some long-dead language, Casimir would have looked at him with a similar gaze of utter confusion and shock.
"Oh," Falls from his mouth, a stone plopping heavily into a stream. Where they're clutched in Thorn's light hands, his arms go limp, Thorn's grasp the only thing keeping them up. It was so simple, such a straightforward and simple reason, but Casimir had to be chased down and have it spelled out for him that someone could possibly enjoy his company, and the simple product of that equation visibly works its way through his head.
"We're... friends," He manages, half-questioning. There's no rejection in his tone, nor on his face, nor anywhere even in the stratosphere as Casimir processes -- the concept of the 'friend-zone' does not glance the slow mechanisms of his brain. The man, at heart, is a fighter; one who's been on the run from himself for years, but a fighter nonetheless. He reads bodies in front of him and prepares for a defense, and he does not care what secret intentions linger behind thrown fists. He just fights back.
Thorn's truth is no different, as Casimir cannot possible predict there's anything else behind what Thorn says. The words themselves are so shocking to him -- despite Thorn calling him a friend mere hours earlier -- that it's all he can do to keep himself upright.
"Okay," He says, and he looks like he's been hit full-speed by a runaway horse. He yearns to blurt that Thorn is incorrect, that underneath the layers of sarcasm and grunts and silence is just nothing but rot, but for once, his tongue does him a favor in its refusal to form words. His eyes meet Thorn's, cracked and half-guarded and bleeding, and for once, he's struck dumb rather than choosing -- or being unable to -- stay silent.
"Oh," Falls from his mouth, a stone plopping heavily into a stream. Where they're clutched in Thorn's light hands, his arms go limp, Thorn's grasp the only thing keeping them up. It was so simple, such a straightforward and simple reason, but Casimir had to be chased down and have it spelled out for him that someone could possibly enjoy his company, and the simple product of that equation visibly works its way through his head.
"We're... friends," He manages, half-questioning. There's no rejection in his tone, nor on his face, nor anywhere even in the stratosphere as Casimir processes -- the concept of the 'friend-zone' does not glance the slow mechanisms of his brain. The man, at heart, is a fighter; one who's been on the run from himself for years, but a fighter nonetheless. He reads bodies in front of him and prepares for a defense, and he does not care what secret intentions linger behind thrown fists. He just fights back.
Thorn's truth is no different, as Casimir cannot possible predict there's anything else behind what Thorn says. The words themselves are so shocking to him -- despite Thorn calling him a friend mere hours earlier -- that it's all he can do to keep himself upright.
"Okay," He says, and he looks like he's been hit full-speed by a runaway horse. He yearns to blurt that Thorn is incorrect, that underneath the layers of sarcasm and grunts and silence is just nothing but rot, but for once, his tongue does him a favor in its refusal to form words. His eyes meet Thorn's, cracked and half-guarded and bleeding, and for once, he's struck dumb rather than choosing -- or being unable to -- stay silent.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
