i fell in love with a war
As Thorn moves behind the bar, Casimir watches with a mix of horror and fascination as the courtesan -- no, the bartender -- moves with a smooth, particular grace to craft a drink. It takes him a moment to recognize himself in these moves, but the more he watches, rapt and unblinking, the clearer it is. It's in the set of Thorn's jaw, the purposefulness of his hands, the soldier-straight spine even as he bends to combine the different elements. When the drink gets slid across the counter with a silent look of smug satisfaction, he gets an overwhelming sense of vertigo, watching what he does daily but in its inverse; the drink slides towards him, not away, and for a moment the bar is inside-out and upside-down. Never once did he think when he was watching his patrons that anyone was watching him back. A shiver races up his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck leap up, and he swears he feels the gaze of eyes on them.
His eyes move from the drink in front of him to catch Thorn's lips darting out to catch a little of excess liquid, and the illusion wavers, there; Casimir would never violate health and safety requirements like that. Thorn's silence is weighty and purposeful and just a little smug, and he knows it's supposed to mirror his, but it still sings just a little something of Thorn's that stops it from being a full, mirrored image. Thorn could try to slip into Casimir's skin if he wished, try on the rot and blood and sins heavy on his back, but Casimir would not be trying on Thorn's. Not fully, at least. Soon, perhaps, the temporary bartender will learn the heaviness that comes with being Casimir and slough it off, and leave the broken man in the dust and find someone who deserves the real focus on his gaze.
The glass gets raised with a mocking toast and he raises it to his lips, taking a cautious tip. He's not a complete teetotaler but the taste of alcohol rarely graces his tongue, and the bitter-sweet burn a hole in his throat not entirely unlike the feeling he gets when his words are stopped up. It's not a bad drink, and he has to commend Thorn for his craft (though he won't). Instead, he tips his head in the barest hint of acknowledgment, face placid and still but not dark.
The drink slides back towards Thorn, not as a refusal, but an offering; Casimir's finger flicks the side of the glass, a low plink resonating in the air, and twitches an invitation to try it.
His eyes move from the drink in front of him to catch Thorn's lips darting out to catch a little of excess liquid, and the illusion wavers, there; Casimir would never violate health and safety requirements like that. Thorn's silence is weighty and purposeful and just a little smug, and he knows it's supposed to mirror his, but it still sings just a little something of Thorn's that stops it from being a full, mirrored image. Thorn could try to slip into Casimir's skin if he wished, try on the rot and blood and sins heavy on his back, but Casimir would not be trying on Thorn's. Not fully, at least. Soon, perhaps, the temporary bartender will learn the heaviness that comes with being Casimir and slough it off, and leave the broken man in the dust and find someone who deserves the real focus on his gaze.
The glass gets raised with a mocking toast and he raises it to his lips, taking a cautious tip. He's not a complete teetotaler but the taste of alcohol rarely graces his tongue, and the bitter-sweet burn a hole in his throat not entirely unlike the feeling he gets when his words are stopped up. It's not a bad drink, and he has to commend Thorn for his craft (though he won't). Instead, he tips his head in the barest hint of acknowledgment, face placid and still but not dark.
The drink slides back towards Thorn, not as a refusal, but an offering; Casimir's finger flicks the side of the glass, a low plink resonating in the air, and twitches an invitation to try it.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
