i'm a thinker, not a talker
The kiss is light but not hesitant, careful but not cautious, and the decisiveness in Thorn’s voice and the firm way he pulls Casimir closer works to dispel some of the panic lacing his veins. There is no ambiguity in the pull of Thorn’s hands on his forearm, in the way his fingers lace with his curls on the back of his neck, and streaks of sunlight begin to dapple through the clouds that have marred Casimir for so long. He allows himself to melt into the touch, loosening tense muscles that were ready to run at a moment’s notice, letting Thorn pull him closer into his space.
This still scares him, whatever this is, and common sense still informs him this is terrible and Thorn may have hit his head extremely hard on his quest. It’s harder to refuse, though, when Thorn is telling him he wants this danger. It’s harder to refuse when inches away from Thorn’s bare, open body, after days of thinking of nothing but him and how he would likely never see the man again. And worse, it’s harder to tell himself he doesn’t want the danger too.
Casimir moves the arm not grasped by Thorn’s warm, bare hand to reach up and ghost against his cheek, feather-light compared Thorn’s solid grasp on him. His stomach is roaring, heart beating, and he thinks of all his years wandering King’s End as a ghost, this is the most beautiful, living thing his cold eyes have set upon.
He tilts his head forward again, just slightly, just enough towards Thorn to act as an invitation. As a question. It’s half-promise, half-plea; I won’t run if you tell me not to. There’s something inside him wresting itself to the surface: something dangerous and alive.
This still scares him, whatever this is, and common sense still informs him this is terrible and Thorn may have hit his head extremely hard on his quest. It’s harder to refuse, though, when Thorn is telling him he wants this danger. It’s harder to refuse when inches away from Thorn’s bare, open body, after days of thinking of nothing but him and how he would likely never see the man again. And worse, it’s harder to tell himself he doesn’t want the danger too.
Casimir moves the arm not grasped by Thorn’s warm, bare hand to reach up and ghost against his cheek, feather-light compared Thorn’s solid grasp on him. His stomach is roaring, heart beating, and he thinks of all his years wandering King’s End as a ghost, this is the most beautiful, living thing his cold eyes have set upon.
He tilts his head forward again, just slightly, just enough towards Thorn to act as an invitation. As a question. It’s half-promise, half-plea; I won’t run if you tell me not to. There’s something inside him wresting itself to the surface: something dangerous and alive.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
