i'm a thinker, not a talker
The journey that flashes across Thorn’s face is plain and open to Casimir, who’s as skilled at reading Thorn as the other man is him. Once, Casimir likened the courtesan to an open book, something well-loved and well-read, his stories not obfuscated by layers of dust or mystery. Thorn’s heart is worn on his sleeve, which has always terrified Casimir with his rough hands and actions that always seem to hurt more than help. He sees the argument that builds up in Thorn, face warping in that indignant flush that seems caused by Casimir’s callousness, and prepares himself to flee from Thorn’s scorn. But then it dies down, almost as quickly as it reared, and a soft glowing smile like candles in a window emerges in its place.
He doesn’t realize he was anticipating until the prospect of it disappears and Thorn settles himself into the blanket. Casimir holds himself still, so still like he’ll crush Thorn with his movements, while the catlike courtesan finds his preferred spot with Casimir as his pillow, and with Thorn’s head on his stone chest he thinks certainly the other man will hear how hollow he is inside.
Casimir dares not move from the position Thorn settled him into. Still slightly sticky from his bar shift, likely smelling of sweat and whiskey, the fleece feels odd and awkward on him. Will sleeping on his chest bring Thorn nightmares? He feels odd and stiff.
Cautiously, he moves his hand from where it lays curled around Thorn’s shoulder and drifts it up to pass light fingers through Thorn’s hair. It’s still damp from the shower and he takes careful pains not to muss it up after farther than it already is. If he’s some rotten, desecrated thing, more hurt than human, he wants whatever good Thorn may see in the pieces to belong to the man on his chest. If that means resting his head on his broken, fighter’s body, then Casimir will lay for as long as the man needs.
He doesn’t realize he was anticipating until the prospect of it disappears and Thorn settles himself into the blanket. Casimir holds himself still, so still like he’ll crush Thorn with his movements, while the catlike courtesan finds his preferred spot with Casimir as his pillow, and with Thorn’s head on his stone chest he thinks certainly the other man will hear how hollow he is inside.
Casimir dares not move from the position Thorn settled him into. Still slightly sticky from his bar shift, likely smelling of sweat and whiskey, the fleece feels odd and awkward on him. Will sleeping on his chest bring Thorn nightmares? He feels odd and stiff.
Cautiously, he moves his hand from where it lays curled around Thorn’s shoulder and drifts it up to pass light fingers through Thorn’s hair. It’s still damp from the shower and he takes careful pains not to muss it up after farther than it already is. If he’s some rotten, desecrated thing, more hurt than human, he wants whatever good Thorn may see in the pieces to belong to the man on his chest. If that means resting his head on his broken, fighter’s body, then Casimir will lay for as long as the man needs.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
