i fell in love with a war
Thorn's mouth closes around Casimir's fork and he really should have foreseen that outcome coming, as well that the intense groan that flows from his mouth. It's on par with his typical theatrics, and as he always does, Casimir rewards the effort with a look of total disinterest. Of all the revelations from that night, all the strange and bizarre and unfathomable things that have come from Thorn, this reaction is almost familiar and comforting even in its ostentatiousness.
He eyes the proffered green pasta with so much cold suspicion that one would think it was a piece of poison offered. The bite is an innocuous green lump on the fork, simple and unassuming and probably just as tasty as his own dish. Reaching across the bar for it, though, seems like yet another crossing of these already blurred and largely-destroyed lines between the two of them, and his arm moves slow to pluck the instrument from Thorn's sparkling fingers. At the point of the threshold, the halfway point between the two of them, it hesitates just for a moment. Then, like a finger passing over a candle flame to see if it'll burn, he takes the fork and pulls it back towards himself.
Thorn is looking at him expectantly, and if the man had not just demolished the majority of his plate, Casimir would liken the look to one of a master alchemist studying to see if their new poison would be effective. He sighs slightly and pulls the pasta off the fork with his teeth, mindful not to let his lips touch the metal where Thorn's had rested.
The man's attentiveness is rewarded by a very specific lack of reaction, and Casimir chews and swallows the pasta without a flicker of opinion showing on his face. It is good, rich and flavorful and somehow green-tasting, but he couldn't let Thorn know that. Obviously. He returns the fork to Thorn's plate and levels another look at him, expectant. What now? It asks.
He eyes the proffered green pasta with so much cold suspicion that one would think it was a piece of poison offered. The bite is an innocuous green lump on the fork, simple and unassuming and probably just as tasty as his own dish. Reaching across the bar for it, though, seems like yet another crossing of these already blurred and largely-destroyed lines between the two of them, and his arm moves slow to pluck the instrument from Thorn's sparkling fingers. At the point of the threshold, the halfway point between the two of them, it hesitates just for a moment. Then, like a finger passing over a candle flame to see if it'll burn, he takes the fork and pulls it back towards himself.
Thorn is looking at him expectantly, and if the man had not just demolished the majority of his plate, Casimir would liken the look to one of a master alchemist studying to see if their new poison would be effective. He sighs slightly and pulls the pasta off the fork with his teeth, mindful not to let his lips touch the metal where Thorn's had rested.
The man's attentiveness is rewarded by a very specific lack of reaction, and Casimir chews and swallows the pasta without a flicker of opinion showing on his face. It is good, rich and flavorful and somehow green-tasting, but he couldn't let Thorn know that. Obviously. He returns the fork to Thorn's plate and levels another look at him, expectant. What now? It asks.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
