i fell in love with a war
At the straightforward request, Casimir begins to mechanically move the food from the plate to the fork to his mouth, enjoying the simplicity of the action and the request. The more Thorn told him exactly what he wanted -- waved that fork around like a wand and bid him do something specific to make him happy -- the easier it seemed for the bartender to settle into comfort in this strange new waltz they were dancing together. The meal goes quickly, Casimir never one to savor his food and instead eating it for utility rather than enjoyment, and soon enough his own fork settles on the counter next to Thorn's.
The courtesan unfolds himself like a cat on the counter, stretched and languid, and Casimir settles himself on his stool for what is undoubtedly about to be some shenanigans. He crosses his arms against his chest in a mirrored imitation of Thorn and curves his back stiltedly so he, too, rests on the counter. It feels unnatural, like his body isn't meant to move in such fluidity, but it's worth it to meet Thorn's gaze at a level directness so he can adequately express his non-answer to the question. His eyes, as always, are flat and unimpressed, and he thinks Thorn can extrapolate an answer based on the way he looks at him with cold heat and half-lidded unimpressed eyes. Under the lights of the room, Thorn's sea-green eyes look darker and murkier, like churning water before a storm, and his lashes are thick from the kohl.
Casimir had, of course, never been to the rooms before. Patrons had told him about them at length and so that the courtesans there, each encouraging him to at the very least go up and take a look at the magical, shifting areas. The bartender had refused to break from his routine from working the bar, taking his diverting walk home, and then settling in his little room in the back, and tonight with Thorn is the first time Casimir has found himself in one of these. He's sure Thorn knows that, though, and clearly wants to bait whatever hook he has before sinking it in front of Casimir for shenanigans.
The courtesan unfolds himself like a cat on the counter, stretched and languid, and Casimir settles himself on his stool for what is undoubtedly about to be some shenanigans. He crosses his arms against his chest in a mirrored imitation of Thorn and curves his back stiltedly so he, too, rests on the counter. It feels unnatural, like his body isn't meant to move in such fluidity, but it's worth it to meet Thorn's gaze at a level directness so he can adequately express his non-answer to the question. His eyes, as always, are flat and unimpressed, and he thinks Thorn can extrapolate an answer based on the way he looks at him with cold heat and half-lidded unimpressed eyes. Under the lights of the room, Thorn's sea-green eyes look darker and murkier, like churning water before a storm, and his lashes are thick from the kohl.
Casimir had, of course, never been to the rooms before. Patrons had told him about them at length and so that the courtesans there, each encouraging him to at the very least go up and take a look at the magical, shifting areas. The bartender had refused to break from his routine from working the bar, taking his diverting walk home, and then settling in his little room in the back, and tonight with Thorn is the first time Casimir has found himself in one of these. He's sure Thorn knows that, though, and clearly wants to bait whatever hook he has before sinking it in front of Casimir for shenanigans.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
