i'm a thinker, not a talker
The absence of the heat from Thorn's body is as sudden as water dousing a roaring flame, and the withdrawal of it sends Casimir's body into a cold, frozen nothingness he didn't even know was possible for it to feel. It's a different cold from that corpse-like chill that thrums through his body so often, and the lack of heat stings worse than the addition of cold. He very carefully avoids looking at the lithe, lean lines of Thorn's tattooed as he stretches, keeping his cool eyes fixed deliberately now on the gleaming, tempting metal of the doorknob and not at that jungle of twisting plant life curving through Thorn's body.
He doesn't have an easy answer in the curve of his head when Thorn asks that question, lingering at the edge of the bathroom like there's something Casimir can give him other than the hurt he's already doled out. Though the question is aired curious and light, not like the sharp rebuke from earlier that still smarts against Casimir's memory, he thinks he senses another stab of resentment there, another reminder that Casimir had failed and ran and hurt him the last time he spoke. Another flinch, a small flicker of pain, spasms across his face. In the light of that rebuke, small or unintentional it may be, Casimir feels room close in on him slightly, pinioning him to his seat. He can't leave, not after that, can't shove that knife deeper into Thorn than he already had.
His head moves in a slight jerk, just a hint of a nod, spoken in that language Thorn is so adept in. Yes, he'll still be there.
He doesn't have an easy answer in the curve of his head when Thorn asks that question, lingering at the edge of the bathroom like there's something Casimir can give him other than the hurt he's already doled out. Though the question is aired curious and light, not like the sharp rebuke from earlier that still smarts against Casimir's memory, he thinks he senses another stab of resentment there, another reminder that Casimir had failed and ran and hurt him the last time he spoke. Another flinch, a small flicker of pain, spasms across his face. In the light of that rebuke, small or unintentional it may be, Casimir feels room close in on him slightly, pinioning him to his seat. He can't leave, not after that, can't shove that knife deeper into Thorn than he already had.
His head moves in a slight jerk, just a hint of a nod, spoken in that language Thorn is so adept in. Yes, he'll still be there.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
