i'm a thinker, not a talker
He had lied before, actually. That wasn't freaking out. Every other definition, every other semblance of anything that could have been a freak out paled in comparison to the freak out Casimir has right now, internally, as Thorn waltzes out of the bathroom, body wet and slick from the hot water. Not that Casimir is looking, of course. His eyes move from the ever-fascinating doorknob to an even more interesting spot on that floor that practically yearns to be examined deeply and without a lapse in eye contact. Yes, this spot on the floor is wonderful, he'll keep looking at it forever.
Out of the corner of his traitorous eye, he can see the shape of Thorn brushing his hair back, glistening arms catching the light and highlighting the muscular curve under his tattoos just perfectly enough to get the bartender's stone heart racing. Despite his perennial pokerface, his utter mastery over his projected emotions, Casimir's face turns a pale shade of pink as he studies the floor. Thorn steps closer, close enough that Casimir thinks he can feel a warm radiance from his skin.
He thinks somewhere there's a God laughing at him. Perhaps Dygra, in her sensual delight in destroying all that's carefully made and cultivated, decided to wield her way on Casimir's tightly-wound self. He can't muster an answer to Thorn's question, not on a good day and certainly not while he's freaking out and avoiding dragging his eyes through the twisting tangle of vines to follow where they dip behind the towel. A new yearning, something he didn't know he still had in him (or, that's not true, he learned he had it on That Night, he's just trying to forget) wants his hand to ghost up and trace those patterns, letting his rough fingers linger on that soft, wet skin just to feel it and prove it's real.
His capacity to continue freaking out is stronger, though, and he stays where he is, perched on the bed, eyes determinedly down and jaw clenched.
Out of the corner of his traitorous eye, he can see the shape of Thorn brushing his hair back, glistening arms catching the light and highlighting the muscular curve under his tattoos just perfectly enough to get the bartender's stone heart racing. Despite his perennial pokerface, his utter mastery over his projected emotions, Casimir's face turns a pale shade of pink as he studies the floor. Thorn steps closer, close enough that Casimir thinks he can feel a warm radiance from his skin.
He thinks somewhere there's a God laughing at him. Perhaps Dygra, in her sensual delight in destroying all that's carefully made and cultivated, decided to wield her way on Casimir's tightly-wound self. He can't muster an answer to Thorn's question, not on a good day and certainly not while he's freaking out and avoiding dragging his eyes through the twisting tangle of vines to follow where they dip behind the towel. A new yearning, something he didn't know he still had in him (or, that's not true, he learned he had it on That Night, he's just trying to forget) wants his hand to ghost up and trace those patterns, letting his rough fingers linger on that soft, wet skin just to feel it and prove it's real.
His capacity to continue freaking out is stronger, though, and he stays where he is, perched on the bed, eyes determinedly down and jaw clenched.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
