i fell in love with a war
The lights fade out of Casimir's periphery as his attention focuses entirely on Thorn's quiet words. The beats of them were familiar, said dozens of times in dozens of different moments of levity and cracked jokes to impressed patrons (and stone-faced bartenders), but injured truth leaks into the story's missing pieces. He didn't nod in sympathy, or make the half-groaned murmurs and grunts that was supposed to show he was listening; instead, he just listens, his hard eyes squared firmly on Thorn's face in neutral comprehending.
Casimir's been told he's a good listener, and it's not just because he's too silent to interrupt. He knows he has a way about his airs, something that made it seem like the center of his entire world was on the speaker. It's partially why he had been such a good bartender, fulfilling that stereotype of the man behind the counter pouring out drink while he listened to woes. Now, if anything, he leans in more fully, absorbing all the pain and flush on Thorn's face.
He doesn't say he's sorry. He doesn't apologize or fill the air with useless fluff. He doesn't snatch his hand away from where Thorn's pinky rubs it, though, and ignores the strange sparking that comes at the contact. The laughter that croaks from Thorn's lips is wholly unlike the boisterous, cheerful sound that filled the air earlier, and its brittle sound splits a crack in Casimir's heart. Thorn had a way of saying the right words, of healing a hurt within someone with just a few well-placed comments and a smile. Casimir knew he didn't have that soft and gentle part within himself, all jagged edges and knives, but...
Thorn had shared. Thorn had opened up his wound and showed the blood to Casimir. It was only fair he did the same.
"I think I'm dead," He blurts out, voice gravel-rough and quiet as the rush of the wind. "I hurt everyone in my life and then I ran. And I've been floating ever since." His hand pulls away from Thorn's and presses against his scar, rubbing hard.
Casimir's been told he's a good listener, and it's not just because he's too silent to interrupt. He knows he has a way about his airs, something that made it seem like the center of his entire world was on the speaker. It's partially why he had been such a good bartender, fulfilling that stereotype of the man behind the counter pouring out drink while he listened to woes. Now, if anything, he leans in more fully, absorbing all the pain and flush on Thorn's face.
He doesn't say he's sorry. He doesn't apologize or fill the air with useless fluff. He doesn't snatch his hand away from where Thorn's pinky rubs it, though, and ignores the strange sparking that comes at the contact. The laughter that croaks from Thorn's lips is wholly unlike the boisterous, cheerful sound that filled the air earlier, and its brittle sound splits a crack in Casimir's heart. Thorn had a way of saying the right words, of healing a hurt within someone with just a few well-placed comments and a smile. Casimir knew he didn't have that soft and gentle part within himself, all jagged edges and knives, but...
Thorn had shared. Thorn had opened up his wound and showed the blood to Casimir. It was only fair he did the same.
"I think I'm dead," He blurts out, voice gravel-rough and quiet as the rush of the wind. "I hurt everyone in my life and then I ran. And I've been floating ever since." His hand pulls away from Thorn's and presses against his scar, rubbing hard.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
