i'm a thinker, not a talker
At the sound of the familiar drawl, Casimir freezes, breath hitching in his chest. He tries to avoid the source of it, half-convinced it’s some awful hallucination his horrible mind has concocted, but his eyes can’t help but flick upwards in that same instinct that draws horrified gazes to life-ending wounds. To any other patron, Casimir would have appeared the picture of collected coolness, gaze steady where it met Thorn’s exhausted eyes. Only the most practiced in the art of reading the slight changes of his face would notice the way his eyes widen just slightly and his hands begin to tremble as he makes the old-fashioned (extra strong).
He tries not to stare out the corner of his eyes as he works, but he’s never seen Thorn without his decorations and accoutrements before, and he looks… young. Tired and worn, clearly, the bags under his eyes and dark smears on his cheeks telling a story of a long journey. But, even though his body is devoid of the usual accessories that draw attention to his lithe, supple (no, don’t think that like) form, Casimir can’t stop looking anyway.
He should run, right? He should fake a heart attack and skitter out of there before he could find a way to hurt Thorn worse than he already did. Instead, he slides the old fashioned across the counter wordlessly (as if there was any other way he could do it) and taps the counter twice, like he always does for Thorn. There’s something like apology in the drink’s quiet slide, his shoulders firm and tense in that way that projects a fighter preparing to throw up their guard in any minute.
His head jerks in a tiny nod of greeting instead, eyes both soft and guarded, and he hopes Thorn doesn’t take his silence for rejection. There’s a little strand of his wild hair sticking up at a particularly ogg angle and the bartender resists the urge to smooth it down. Casimir begins to drift away from that spot at the bar under the presence of needing to collect an empty cup at the absolute other end, quiet and still and lifeless as the ghost he swears he is.
He tries not to stare out the corner of his eyes as he works, but he’s never seen Thorn without his decorations and accoutrements before, and he looks… young. Tired and worn, clearly, the bags under his eyes and dark smears on his cheeks telling a story of a long journey. But, even though his body is devoid of the usual accessories that draw attention to his lithe, supple (no, don’t think that like) form, Casimir can’t stop looking anyway.
He should run, right? He should fake a heart attack and skitter out of there before he could find a way to hurt Thorn worse than he already did. Instead, he slides the old fashioned across the counter wordlessly (as if there was any other way he could do it) and taps the counter twice, like he always does for Thorn. There’s something like apology in the drink’s quiet slide, his shoulders firm and tense in that way that projects a fighter preparing to throw up their guard in any minute.
His head jerks in a tiny nod of greeting instead, eyes both soft and guarded, and he hopes Thorn doesn’t take his silence for rejection. There’s a little strand of his wild hair sticking up at a particularly ogg angle and the bartender resists the urge to smooth it down. Casimir begins to drift away from that spot at the bar under the presence of needing to collect an empty cup at the absolute other end, quiet and still and lifeless as the ghost he swears he is.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
