i'm a thinker, not a talker
The unintentional rebuke crashes into Casimir like a brutal punch to the sternum, knocking the wind out of him and causing the big man to bodily flinch like he had actually been struck. Hurt, a fear, and a hint of panic flash over his face before he schools it back into his neutral mask, but his chest heaves slightly and his fingers curl into clenched, anxious fists where they hang by his side.
He thought— he doesn’t know what he thought. There was a small bloom of hope and wistfulness in his chest when Thorn’s face had lit up upon receiving the washcloth, and he stupidly thought perhaps it had meant the courtesan had heard all his silent apologies throughout the evening. His actions — violent, giving, stupid, whatever — had always spoken much louder than his words (or lack thereof). It was self-centered for him to think that someone like Thorn, so bawdy and open, could understand him.
His fingers ghost the doorknob, the metal biting and cold under the tips of his fingers. Thorn seems to have melted into the comfort of his room, letting it reclaim him in its homey splendor, and Casimir feels himself sticking out like a big brown spider in a lush garden. The invitation to stay is contrasted by the harsh, toneless murmur it came out in, and the rebuke is clear. He should go. Thorn wants him to go.
He doesn’t want to go.
Carefully, he ghosts to the corner of the bed, sinking down to perch as little of himself there as possible. The cushion of it sinks under him, an unstable life raft on a stormy sea, unmooring his senses slightly. It’s just until Thorn sobers up a little, just to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep on his back or smothers himself with a pillow. Then he’ll ghost away (to Halo), and Thorn will be better off.
He thought— he doesn’t know what he thought. There was a small bloom of hope and wistfulness in his chest when Thorn’s face had lit up upon receiving the washcloth, and he stupidly thought perhaps it had meant the courtesan had heard all his silent apologies throughout the evening. His actions — violent, giving, stupid, whatever — had always spoken much louder than his words (or lack thereof). It was self-centered for him to think that someone like Thorn, so bawdy and open, could understand him.
His fingers ghost the doorknob, the metal biting and cold under the tips of his fingers. Thorn seems to have melted into the comfort of his room, letting it reclaim him in its homey splendor, and Casimir feels himself sticking out like a big brown spider in a lush garden. The invitation to stay is contrasted by the harsh, toneless murmur it came out in, and the rebuke is clear. He should go. Thorn wants him to go.
He doesn’t want to go.
Carefully, he ghosts to the corner of the bed, sinking down to perch as little of himself there as possible. The cushion of it sinks under him, an unstable life raft on a stormy sea, unmooring his senses slightly. It’s just until Thorn sobers up a little, just to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep on his back or smothers himself with a pillow. Then he’ll ghost away (to Halo), and Thorn will be better off.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
