i fell in love with a war
Floating. It was an unintentional choice of words on his end, as unpracticed as he was in the art of confession. Thorn's face is as gentle and open as it's ever been, no hint of levity or joking in his down, but also, no prying curiosity either. The question that spring from him are as gentle as his tone had been before. Utter, absolute incredulity washed over Casimir as he drank in Thorn's bright, curious eyes. How did the courtesan want to know more after that confession? Was he trying to determine just how bad Casimir was before plunging the knife in?
The questions are waves at high tide against Casimir's senses and he lets them wash away from him. He couldn't answer even if he did know what to say, and he doesn't. Floating. How does he tell Thorn, the center of every room and shining like the aurora ahead that his hands drifted through everything he touched? That at night, he woke up half-screaming, hand clutched to his throat like he was trying to keep everything in him from spilling out? That the fist Thorn had been touching so gently had smashed the face in of countless fighters in the streets of Torchline, bloodying his knuckles and hands?
Perhaps atonement is a shade closer to what he means, but it doesn't quite strike the right chord so Casimir stays silent, letting the silent desperation seep slowly and slightly to his eyes. It was too hard an admission to allow for anything else to leave his throat, his airway backed up from the words he had just spoken, so he merely shakes his head the smallest of amounts, knowing Thorn would see it. It's both a refusal to answer, as well as a negative confirmation to all he had just asked. His hand just keeps rubbing at his scar, hard and and almost rhythmic. Slowly, the puddle of blood returns to under his stool, but the distracted bartender doesn't even see where the dark red melts into the snow under him.
His eyes study Thorn again, more intently than they had been, truly drinking in the innocent curiosity and open care written there. Why was the man so dedicated to running his hands over a sharpened sword to see if it would bleed? He would allow the space for Thorn to theorize and come up with a more desirable shape of Casimir in his head, so the next time the two spoke, Casimir would hope he could look Thorn in the eyes.
Around him, the ethereal world of Halo melts back to the familiar prison, home, purgatory, and graveyard of the bar. The lights are low, like it's closing shift in the middle of the night, and lightning cracks against concocted windows. The stain of blood stays.
The questions are waves at high tide against Casimir's senses and he lets them wash away from him. He couldn't answer even if he did know what to say, and he doesn't. Floating. How does he tell Thorn, the center of every room and shining like the aurora ahead that his hands drifted through everything he touched? That at night, he woke up half-screaming, hand clutched to his throat like he was trying to keep everything in him from spilling out? That the fist Thorn had been touching so gently had smashed the face in of countless fighters in the streets of Torchline, bloodying his knuckles and hands?
Perhaps atonement is a shade closer to what he means, but it doesn't quite strike the right chord so Casimir stays silent, letting the silent desperation seep slowly and slightly to his eyes. It was too hard an admission to allow for anything else to leave his throat, his airway backed up from the words he had just spoken, so he merely shakes his head the smallest of amounts, knowing Thorn would see it. It's both a refusal to answer, as well as a negative confirmation to all he had just asked. His hand just keeps rubbing at his scar, hard and and almost rhythmic. Slowly, the puddle of blood returns to under his stool, but the distracted bartender doesn't even see where the dark red melts into the snow under him.
His eyes study Thorn again, more intently than they had been, truly drinking in the innocent curiosity and open care written there. Why was the man so dedicated to running his hands over a sharpened sword to see if it would bleed? He would allow the space for Thorn to theorize and come up with a more desirable shape of Casimir in his head, so the next time the two spoke, Casimir would hope he could look Thorn in the eyes.
Around him, the ethereal world of Halo melts back to the familiar prison, home, purgatory, and graveyard of the bar. The lights are low, like it's closing shift in the middle of the night, and lightning cracks against concocted windows. The stain of blood stays.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
