i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir's eyes spark in ever-so-slight relief, eyebrows twitching just a touch. It's not that he's thrilled Thorn went on a grueling adventure leaving him exhausted and clearly in at least some measure of pain, but he does feel a guilty modicum of some weight departing his shoulders. At least it wasn't him that sent Thorn fleeing from the House and forcing him to run through the ringer before returning tored and aching. And then the guilt instantly clamors back on because he feels guilty for letting some of that guilt leave him, because after what he did to Thorn he should feel guilty and he's just relieved Thorn still deigns to talk to him, even if it's just to tell him why he was squashed like a slug on Casimir's bar.
All that flashes through his head behind an imperceptible stone-faced pokerface, but he does let out a very very quiet hm of acknowledgement which he hopes conveys the intended meaning of that sounds hard. He doesn't know much about unicorns or healing rivers or anything but guilt and blood under his fingernails, but he knows the bone-deep tired that comes after wringing yourself out for days.
He pretends he doesn't notice the way Thorn doesn't lift his eyes to look at him. Casimir makes a start to go to the other side of the bar again, equipping his trusty move of running the hell away, but the other bartender on duty makes eyes at him that looks like don't you fucking dare and flicks his gaze to where Thorn's fingers trace unintelligible doodles on the countertop. Casimir knew he should've killed that damn bartender when he let him leave his shift early on That Night because really it was his fault this all happened (no, no it wasn't, it was Casimir's fault, always his) but it's too late to do it now without causing a fuss so his feet stay anchored to the ground, the straight rod of his spine extending and burying itself beneath him so he has no choice but to stay propped up to face his guilt.
His eyes stay trained on Thorn, watching the swirl of water under his finger. His hands looked so delicate without the rings that near-constantly adorn them.
"Do you want me to help you to your room?" He murmurs, his first words spoken in days and intended for one recipient only.
All that flashes through his head behind an imperceptible stone-faced pokerface, but he does let out a very very quiet hm of acknowledgement which he hopes conveys the intended meaning of that sounds hard. He doesn't know much about unicorns or healing rivers or anything but guilt and blood under his fingernails, but he knows the bone-deep tired that comes after wringing yourself out for days.
He pretends he doesn't notice the way Thorn doesn't lift his eyes to look at him. Casimir makes a start to go to the other side of the bar again, equipping his trusty move of running the hell away, but the other bartender on duty makes eyes at him that looks like don't you fucking dare and flicks his gaze to where Thorn's fingers trace unintelligible doodles on the countertop. Casimir knew he should've killed that damn bartender when he let him leave his shift early on That Night because really it was his fault this all happened (no, no it wasn't, it was Casimir's fault, always his) but it's too late to do it now without causing a fuss so his feet stay anchored to the ground, the straight rod of his spine extending and burying itself beneath him so he has no choice but to stay propped up to face his guilt.
His eyes stay trained on Thorn, watching the swirl of water under his finger. His hands looked so delicate without the rings that near-constantly adorn them.
"Do you want me to help you to your room?" He murmurs, his first words spoken in days and intended for one recipient only.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
