i fell in love with a war
Casimir hides his nausea rather well, he thinks, only stumbling a little when he emerges. The sound of Thorn’s laughter, close behind him, is rich and full and fills the air with its merriment. His comment about being direct brings another spark of mirth to the bartender’s eyes — really, hasn’t Thorn learned he couldn’t be anything but, when talking to the taciturn bartender? — and he wonders what undercurrents of Thorn’s words he so often misses when the man is playing coy.
(Why would he even want to get Casimir alone in a room? It was a ridiculous notion. With the courtesan’s pretty face and delicate features, he could anyone alone. He didn’t need Casimir for that).
The shorter man quickly overtakes him and Casimir slows his footsteps, letting the man guide them towards the gentle lights of the House. It’s a comforting sight as it rises into view, like collapsing in front of the fire after coming in from the cold, and he’s surprised at the sense of familiarity it arises with him. Somewhere, somehow, this hiding-hole has become sort of a home to him. He casts a sidelong glance at Thorn’s hurrying back. Is it the same for him? Or is it something that traps him, that he wishes to outrun? Would Colt’s desert treat him with the same kindness?
When the house comes into view, he catches Thorn’s eye and jerks a head towards the back door, leading him towards the lesser-used and more private entrance. There’s enough rumors spreading around him at the House — that he lost his voice in an underground fighting ring, that he had a harem of secret lovers hidden away, that he spawned alongside the brothel and wasn’t allowed to leave — and he didn’t need to add anything about him and Thorn to the chattering whispers.
He traipses up the stairs with Thorn, shoulders clenched and hunched like he’s expecting an attack. The bartender has never been on the second floor of the House, never had a reason to, and as he creaks open a strong mahogany door, he doesn’t know what to expect. The surroundings morph in front of him like dripping paint down a canvas, blurring the scenery into something soft and unfocused before morphing into a cozy living room. In the small room, two plush armchairs sit in front of a roaring fire, inviting and warm and safe, and Casimir finches so hard he knocks into the wall, his chest heaving heavily and frantic.
He blinks, and the room shifts easily, the armchairs morphing like flowing sand into hard, familiar stools.
The bar of the House of Midnight sits innocuously in front of them, gleaming and shining and familiar.
(Why would he even want to get Casimir alone in a room? It was a ridiculous notion. With the courtesan’s pretty face and delicate features, he could anyone alone. He didn’t need Casimir for that).
The shorter man quickly overtakes him and Casimir slows his footsteps, letting the man guide them towards the gentle lights of the House. It’s a comforting sight as it rises into view, like collapsing in front of the fire after coming in from the cold, and he’s surprised at the sense of familiarity it arises with him. Somewhere, somehow, this hiding-hole has become sort of a home to him. He casts a sidelong glance at Thorn’s hurrying back. Is it the same for him? Or is it something that traps him, that he wishes to outrun? Would Colt’s desert treat him with the same kindness?
When the house comes into view, he catches Thorn’s eye and jerks a head towards the back door, leading him towards the lesser-used and more private entrance. There’s enough rumors spreading around him at the House — that he lost his voice in an underground fighting ring, that he had a harem of secret lovers hidden away, that he spawned alongside the brothel and wasn’t allowed to leave — and he didn’t need to add anything about him and Thorn to the chattering whispers.
He traipses up the stairs with Thorn, shoulders clenched and hunched like he’s expecting an attack. The bartender has never been on the second floor of the House, never had a reason to, and as he creaks open a strong mahogany door, he doesn’t know what to expect. The surroundings morph in front of him like dripping paint down a canvas, blurring the scenery into something soft and unfocused before morphing into a cozy living room. In the small room, two plush armchairs sit in front of a roaring fire, inviting and warm and safe, and Casimir finches so hard he knocks into the wall, his chest heaving heavily and frantic.
He blinks, and the room shifts easily, the armchairs morphing like flowing sand into hard, familiar stools.
The bar of the House of Midnight sits innocuously in front of them, gleaming and shining and familiar.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
