i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir doesn’t know what he expected at Thorn’s door, but he was thoroughly unsurprised at the decadent floral decorations adorning the frame. It’s sparkling and glittering and so extravagant it practically glows, and it’s so unequivocally Thorn it makes his heart ache with something he can’t quite place. He’s about to reach out and coax it open with a gentle push of his hand, worried it may blow away like dandelion fuzz upon the touch of his hand, when Thorn suddenly lurches-
Casimir sees Thorn tumbling forward like time has slowed, pitching him towards him, and just as he’s about to panic and throw himself bodily under the man to catch him when Thorn’s surprisingly strong fingers wrap around his arms and catch him before he can pitch forward. It’s a surprisingly graceful move for someone as swaying as he is, and Casimir will be impressed if he wasn’t panicking. His hands, firm and steady and utterly gripped onto Casimir’s arms, seem to burn once again through his fabric.
He stands there for a moment, Thorn clutching onto him and Casimir frozen under him, a statue cursed to be petrified by human touch. Thorn’s eyes are cloudy and slightly fogged from that haze of exhaustion and tipsiness that enclose him, but still sparkling and bright and just as vibrant as they were on That Night—
In Casimir’s defense, he pulls away gently this time, ensuring Thorn is well and truly steady before pulling his arms back, already missing the heat of contact. His jaw clenches, taut and tense, eyes defensive and cold, and leans back to open the door.
Casimir sees Thorn tumbling forward like time has slowed, pitching him towards him, and just as he’s about to panic and throw himself bodily under the man to catch him when Thorn’s surprisingly strong fingers wrap around his arms and catch him before he can pitch forward. It’s a surprisingly graceful move for someone as swaying as he is, and Casimir will be impressed if he wasn’t panicking. His hands, firm and steady and utterly gripped onto Casimir’s arms, seem to burn once again through his fabric.
He stands there for a moment, Thorn clutching onto him and Casimir frozen under him, a statue cursed to be petrified by human touch. Thorn’s eyes are cloudy and slightly fogged from that haze of exhaustion and tipsiness that enclose him, but still sparkling and bright and just as vibrant as they were on That Night—
In Casimir’s defense, he pulls away gently this time, ensuring Thorn is well and truly steady before pulling his arms back, already missing the heat of contact. His jaw clenches, taut and tense, eyes defensive and cold, and leans back to open the door.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
