i fell in love with a war
The loss of contact on Casimir's wrists make them feel cold and smarting, almost sizzling from the change in temperature, but when he glances at them, there's no evidence anything is wrong. His hands grasp his wool coat and the temperature of the outside finally slams into him now that he's evening out of his whirlwind of self-made panic. The crash rearing in his head is not dissimilar to one that happens after a made, when the adrenaline seeps away and the body realizes exactly how many times he's been hit, and his shoulders nearly ache when they slip on the coat.
Another jolt of guilt -- ever-present, ugly and stinging -- nearly sends him to his knees when Thorn huddles into his jacket, shielding himself from the horrible weather that has undoubtedly been wracking his lithe frame when he chased after Casimir. The soft exhale of something like relief shoots stars into the terrified bartender's eyes, and as the courtesan turns to get their food, Casimir fights off another primal instinct to flee. He forces his feet to root themselves to the cobblestoned streets, though, and he's exactly where Thorn left him when he turned away. A grimace suppresses itself as Thorn once again poses another question, and though the words are a soft balm against Casimir's smarting fight-or-flight, he reviles the necessity of verbalizing his decision. Thorn looks at him with such gentleness and affection that Casimir feels like a wounded animal, but he's acted too strange and spooked tonight to get angry about being treated like the injured thing he is, and forces himself to trust the gentleness.
The part of him that hasn't been ruined -- if there's any part left -- wants him to extend it back. (Look at where that got him in the restaurant). Still, the unending, futile task of trying to let Thorn get what he wants and know him begins again. With hands only slightly shaking from the exertion of it, he levers his coat off his body and moves it artlessly to Thorn's shoulders, letting the folds of it envelop the leather. When his words have failed -- and oh, had they failed him that night! -- his actions have always spoke on his behalf, and he falls back on that to allow it to answer Thorn's question.
Whatever he chooses, Casimir is with him. At least for tonight.
Another jolt of guilt -- ever-present, ugly and stinging -- nearly sends him to his knees when Thorn huddles into his jacket, shielding himself from the horrible weather that has undoubtedly been wracking his lithe frame when he chased after Casimir. The soft exhale of something like relief shoots stars into the terrified bartender's eyes, and as the courtesan turns to get their food, Casimir fights off another primal instinct to flee. He forces his feet to root themselves to the cobblestoned streets, though, and he's exactly where Thorn left him when he turned away. A grimace suppresses itself as Thorn once again poses another question, and though the words are a soft balm against Casimir's smarting fight-or-flight, he reviles the necessity of verbalizing his decision. Thorn looks at him with such gentleness and affection that Casimir feels like a wounded animal, but he's acted too strange and spooked tonight to get angry about being treated like the injured thing he is, and forces himself to trust the gentleness.
The part of him that hasn't been ruined -- if there's any part left -- wants him to extend it back. (Look at where that got him in the restaurant). Still, the unending, futile task of trying to let Thorn get what he wants and know him begins again. With hands only slightly shaking from the exertion of it, he levers his coat off his body and moves it artlessly to Thorn's shoulders, letting the folds of it envelop the leather. When his words have failed -- and oh, had they failed him that night! -- his actions have always spoke on his behalf, and he falls back on that to allow it to answer Thorn's question.
Whatever he chooses, Casimir is with him. At least for tonight.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
