i'm a thinker, not a talker
When the towel slides down, exposing more of Thorn's hip, Casimir feels it slide against his thighs and hesitates. His hands still caressing the back of Thorn's neck, he pulls back just slightly, breathing hard, chest rising and falling from life rather than existence for the first time in years.
"Wait," he breathes, and he's not running away this time, genuinely, but--
This is real. Whatever this strange dance the two have, whatever pull Casimir feels towards the man with the kind eye who haunts his bar and seems to want to lever back his rusted armor to see if anything soft still lives under there, whatever they've built up in their last few years of rotating each other's orbit is real. What it is, Casimir cannot name, just knows it makes him yearn for Thorn's gentle presence by his side and his soft hands on his chin.
He doesn't want to rush into this, whatever this may end up being. He does not want to be another person who Thorn thinks sees his body first and foremost. He does not want Thorn to think Casimir is only relenting now because of the brittle tragedy that lines his bones and the yearning he held within him for the past few days. And, all that aside, Thorn is exhausted. Though showered and lightly-napped, Casimir knows the man is more ragged than he's ever seen him, thoroughly worn from clearly an arduous journey. Thorn is softer here, less disguised, without the glitter and the mesmer and Casimir can finally see him how he is when the spell he casts on others has worn off, and it's beautiful. It is not for a lack of desire that makes him draw back, but an abundance of care for what the other man needs.
"It's-- you need rest," He manages out, and he prays to Mort and Frey and Dygra it doesn't sound like a rejection. "Not this." His hand moves to cup Thorn's cheek, firm and anchored. Throat bobbing, he fights with the words to eke out what he means. "But... I'll stay here while you rest. If you want." They come out quiet, as always, but almost shy, with that edge of defensiveness that always lines his words.
"Wait," he breathes, and he's not running away this time, genuinely, but--
This is real. Whatever this strange dance the two have, whatever pull Casimir feels towards the man with the kind eye who haunts his bar and seems to want to lever back his rusted armor to see if anything soft still lives under there, whatever they've built up in their last few years of rotating each other's orbit is real. What it is, Casimir cannot name, just knows it makes him yearn for Thorn's gentle presence by his side and his soft hands on his chin.
He doesn't want to rush into this, whatever this may end up being. He does not want to be another person who Thorn thinks sees his body first and foremost. He does not want Thorn to think Casimir is only relenting now because of the brittle tragedy that lines his bones and the yearning he held within him for the past few days. And, all that aside, Thorn is exhausted. Though showered and lightly-napped, Casimir knows the man is more ragged than he's ever seen him, thoroughly worn from clearly an arduous journey. Thorn is softer here, less disguised, without the glitter and the mesmer and Casimir can finally see him how he is when the spell he casts on others has worn off, and it's beautiful. It is not for a lack of desire that makes him draw back, but an abundance of care for what the other man needs.
"It's-- you need rest," He manages out, and he prays to Mort and Frey and Dygra it doesn't sound like a rejection. "Not this." His hand moves to cup Thorn's cheek, firm and anchored. Throat bobbing, he fights with the words to eke out what he means. "But... I'll stay here while you rest. If you want." They come out quiet, as always, but almost shy, with that edge of defensiveness that always lines his words.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
