i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir, unlike Thorn, who seems to drop into unconsciousness pretty damn quickly if the deep and even rise and fall of his chest is any indication. There seems to have been some sort of switch triggered in Thorn, as soon as he settled himself comfortably enough against the muscled chest of the bartender, and he’s out more or less like an extinguished candle once Casimir starts thoughtfully combing through his hair.
Casimir barely sleeps that night, focused too deeply on keeping himself still under Thorn’s sleeping bed and trying to urge his heart to stop hammering so incessantly. Perhaps it’s the ease in which Thorn drops off that keeps him so alert and awake, barely skimming below that first level of consciousness to anything more than a drowse. It’s like he’s trying to nod off with a tiger leaning on his chest, or a rare butterfly is perched on his outstretched finger and he’s desperately trying not to crush it. Instead, he focuses on the slow in-and-out of Thorn’s breath, almost meditative in his contemplation of it, and tries not to let the panic push through his body so loudly it may wake Thorn up.
What is he even scared of, he wonders, as he waits for morning to crawl closer. Of waking Thorn, yes, but perhaps also of opening himself any more fully than he already has. It feels silly — Thorn has already embraced more of him than anyone else in years, Casimir having shown him more than he showed everyone else — but this, this simple act of resting in harmony, sends Casimir reeling in a type of panic similar to what sent him retreating on That Night.
He stays, though, this time. He makes himself stay. Thorn told him to stay and he will not fail him, will not hurt him again, even though he inevitably will. He will not hasten along that inevitability if he can help it. Eventually, the morning dragging itself into the room at a slow crawl, Thorn stirs slightly where he’s curled on his chest. Casimir feels his face bury itself in him like he was the pillow on a warm morning, and it burns something so bright and intense within him he stops breathing for a moment.
Someone normal, someone romantic, would bid Thorn good morning, maybe kiss him awake. Casimir is neither of those things, is barely even functioning and breathing. Rather than something of that sort, he moves his hand back to Thorn’s shoulder, rubbing it slightly, trying to wake up him to the reality of the day with the (alleged) comfort of his touch.
Casimir barely sleeps that night, focused too deeply on keeping himself still under Thorn’s sleeping bed and trying to urge his heart to stop hammering so incessantly. Perhaps it’s the ease in which Thorn drops off that keeps him so alert and awake, barely skimming below that first level of consciousness to anything more than a drowse. It’s like he’s trying to nod off with a tiger leaning on his chest, or a rare butterfly is perched on his outstretched finger and he’s desperately trying not to crush it. Instead, he focuses on the slow in-and-out of Thorn’s breath, almost meditative in his contemplation of it, and tries not to let the panic push through his body so loudly it may wake Thorn up.
What is he even scared of, he wonders, as he waits for morning to crawl closer. Of waking Thorn, yes, but perhaps also of opening himself any more fully than he already has. It feels silly — Thorn has already embraced more of him than anyone else in years, Casimir having shown him more than he showed everyone else — but this, this simple act of resting in harmony, sends Casimir reeling in a type of panic similar to what sent him retreating on That Night.
He stays, though, this time. He makes himself stay. Thorn told him to stay and he will not fail him, will not hurt him again, even though he inevitably will. He will not hasten along that inevitability if he can help it. Eventually, the morning dragging itself into the room at a slow crawl, Thorn stirs slightly where he’s curled on his chest. Casimir feels his face bury itself in him like he was the pillow on a warm morning, and it burns something so bright and intense within him he stops breathing for a moment.
Someone normal, someone romantic, would bid Thorn good morning, maybe kiss him awake. Casimir is neither of those things, is barely even functioning and breathing. Rather than something of that sort, he moves his hand back to Thorn’s shoulder, rubbing it slightly, trying to wake up him to the reality of the day with the (alleged) comfort of his touch.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
