i fell in love with a war
As Thorn leaps onto the bar and rests his hands gently on Casimir's face, it takes every modicum of willpower he has stored in his powerful frame not to flinch away. The courtesan's hands are warm and soft, the rings a slight metal interruption from the feeling of gentleness against his face, and somehow, though the touch burns like the others that evening did, it's the good kind of pain. It hurts the same way someone's stomach would after laughing too hard, or the burn of a hot hearth after coming in from the cold. The sensation is utterly alien to the bartender, only able to recall the feelings of fists against skin. Nothing like this. A low, soft sound escapes his throat, barely audible over the storm raging outside, landing halfway between an exhale and an animal whine.
The intensity of Thorn's gaze, that way his seafoam eyes drink in every aspect of his face like there are marvels to be found there, it almost as searing as the touch of his hands and Casimir has to look away from it. His eyes find the ceiling, the window, Thorn's loose curls, the corner of his ear in avoidance, and when he can't take the pressure of the beautiful man's gaze, his eyes flicker shut. He breathes through the strange sensation in his chest, the thing inside him that aches and rots like an old, necrotized bruise. How long has he been holding it there? How long has he been holding it back? Thorn's cautious probing, the clasp of his hands against his face and the soft ways his eyes try to meet Casimir's peels back a scab that had only just barely closed.
Hands shaking just slightly, he reaches up and clasps Thorn's wrists, and though he wants to pry them off his face, his traitorous hands wouldn't let him. They stay there, holding Thorn's wrists, loose and fragile like they could fall away at any moment.
He can't answer Thorn's questions. He can't. He doesn't know how, doesn't know the answers and doesn't know how to force his tongue to form them even if he did. So he stays there, cowardly and craving, holding Thorn's hands against his face and silently begging him not to let go.
The intensity of Thorn's gaze, that way his seafoam eyes drink in every aspect of his face like there are marvels to be found there, it almost as searing as the touch of his hands and Casimir has to look away from it. His eyes find the ceiling, the window, Thorn's loose curls, the corner of his ear in avoidance, and when he can't take the pressure of the beautiful man's gaze, his eyes flicker shut. He breathes through the strange sensation in his chest, the thing inside him that aches and rots like an old, necrotized bruise. How long has he been holding it there? How long has he been holding it back? Thorn's cautious probing, the clasp of his hands against his face and the soft ways his eyes try to meet Casimir's peels back a scab that had only just barely closed.
Hands shaking just slightly, he reaches up and clasps Thorn's wrists, and though he wants to pry them off his face, his traitorous hands wouldn't let him. They stay there, holding Thorn's wrists, loose and fragile like they could fall away at any moment.
He can't answer Thorn's questions. He can't. He doesn't know how, doesn't know the answers and doesn't know how to force his tongue to form them even if he did. So he stays there, cowardly and craving, holding Thorn's hands against his face and silently begging him not to let go.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
