i fell in love with a war
When Thorn’s forehead presses against his, gentle and firm in its pressure, his hot breath mingling with Casimir’s labored breathing, he knows he’s a fraud. Who is he, to be held gently by Thorn, to receive gentle whispers of kindness and encouragement when the other man hadn’t even known what he was running from?
He should pull back, reject the courtesan’s kindness, firmly correct the misconception there was something good within him. What is a person if not the sum of everything they’ve been? And Casimir has done so much wrong, so much hurt, that all the gentleness within him rotted away when he fled Torchline and was reborn at the end of a daemon’s claws. He has no right to lean into Thorn’s touch and allow himself to be cradled like a delicate thing that deserves light handling.
His hands don’t move against Thorn’s. He doesn’t go to push him away. The courtesan smells like petrichor and sandalwood, a forest before a storm ravages through. Delicately, like he’s afraid of his touch combusting something precious, his hands move up to rest gently against Thorn’s cheeks. He inhales deep, soft and slow, preparing himself to push away and savoring this while he has it. Before Thorn realized better.
His heart burns low and fierce in his chest, and with his brain on fire, he slowly moves his lips mere millimeters away from Thorn’s.
The movement is delicate, a hand brushing the petals of the flower, soft and hesitant and almost afraid of the touch. His chest is concave, filled with need for something he can’t touch, and he leaves the choice of whether their lips should join in Thorn’s hand, like the coward he is. His top lip brushes against Thorn’s bottom one, a zap of electricity moving through him, and he prepares himself move away if Thorn shows any sign of not wishing to proceed.
He should pull away, actually, knows in this heart this is an awful idea and he should run. Any moment now, he’ll leap from the stool and retreat like he had in the restaurant. Any second now.
He doesn’t move.
He should pull back, reject the courtesan’s kindness, firmly correct the misconception there was something good within him. What is a person if not the sum of everything they’ve been? And Casimir has done so much wrong, so much hurt, that all the gentleness within him rotted away when he fled Torchline and was reborn at the end of a daemon’s claws. He has no right to lean into Thorn’s touch and allow himself to be cradled like a delicate thing that deserves light handling.
His hands don’t move against Thorn’s. He doesn’t go to push him away. The courtesan smells like petrichor and sandalwood, a forest before a storm ravages through. Delicately, like he’s afraid of his touch combusting something precious, his hands move up to rest gently against Thorn’s cheeks. He inhales deep, soft and slow, preparing himself to push away and savoring this while he has it. Before Thorn realized better.
His heart burns low and fierce in his chest, and with his brain on fire, he slowly moves his lips mere millimeters away from Thorn’s.
The movement is delicate, a hand brushing the petals of the flower, soft and hesitant and almost afraid of the touch. His chest is concave, filled with need for something he can’t touch, and he leaves the choice of whether their lips should join in Thorn’s hand, like the coward he is. His top lip brushes against Thorn’s bottom one, a zap of electricity moving through him, and he prepares himself move away if Thorn shows any sign of not wishing to proceed.
He should pull away, actually, knows in this heart this is an awful idea and he should run. Any moment now, he’ll leap from the stool and retreat like he had in the restaurant. Any second now.
He doesn’t move.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
