i fell in love with a war
The question should have been an anticipated one, but Casimir hadn't expected it anyway and his body twitches as something like a flinch passes through him. The stars above have drifted fully into different constellations without him commanding him to; just a response to the ghost of a memory, filling in what Casimir would have expected to see when he casts his eyes upward. As Thorn asks the question, gentle like he's trying not to spook an already half-crazed horse. the stars whirl back to where they had been.
The bartender's eyes fix on the lone jailbroken curl dancing on Thorn's forehead and tells himself its eye contact. That he's not avoiding anything. It's a strange feeling of deja vu to have, Thorn asking him such a personal question at the same bar they had known each other at, but in such a strange and bizarre configuration of sitting and place. Unlike his usual inquisitions, though, this one is soft. It's not prying, not built to bust something in Casimir open and examine it under a bright light, and though it's curious, it's not teasing.
Thorn looks young under the soft glow of the twinkling stars and Casimir remembers that he's even younger than this beautiful boy with the gentle smile on his face. He feels old.
Questions about his past get thrown aside with more disdain than any others, but Thorn's eyes are so open and imploring, his voice so gentle, and the curl dances on his forehead in a hypnotizing pattern. Any word about himself hurts like a dagger getting wrested out of a wound but Casimir owes something to Thorn for tonight; he's treated Casimir like a person instead of the corpse he knows he is, told him what to do to make him happy and then let him do it. He doesn't quite want to answer Thorn's question, not yet, but--
He will.
His head jerks, a single slight nod that's almost violent in its brief certainty before returning to its normal place. Unfolding his body away from where it had leaned so casually on the counter, he sets his shoulders back into their normal defensive knot and casts his eyes upward to once again study the stars. He's not avoiding looking at Thorn. He isn't.
The bartender's eyes fix on the lone jailbroken curl dancing on Thorn's forehead and tells himself its eye contact. That he's not avoiding anything. It's a strange feeling of deja vu to have, Thorn asking him such a personal question at the same bar they had known each other at, but in such a strange and bizarre configuration of sitting and place. Unlike his usual inquisitions, though, this one is soft. It's not prying, not built to bust something in Casimir open and examine it under a bright light, and though it's curious, it's not teasing.
Thorn looks young under the soft glow of the twinkling stars and Casimir remembers that he's even younger than this beautiful boy with the gentle smile on his face. He feels old.
Questions about his past get thrown aside with more disdain than any others, but Thorn's eyes are so open and imploring, his voice so gentle, and the curl dances on his forehead in a hypnotizing pattern. Any word about himself hurts like a dagger getting wrested out of a wound but Casimir owes something to Thorn for tonight; he's treated Casimir like a person instead of the corpse he knows he is, told him what to do to make him happy and then let him do it. He doesn't quite want to answer Thorn's question, not yet, but--
He will.
His head jerks, a single slight nod that's almost violent in its brief certainty before returning to its normal place. Unfolding his body away from where it had leaned so casually on the counter, he sets his shoulders back into their normal defensive knot and casts his eyes upward to once again study the stars. He's not avoiding looking at Thorn. He isn't.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
