i'm a thinker, not a talker
Thorn comes to slowly, but Casimir can pinpoint the exact moment the surprise rushes into him, the shock clear as the daylight filtering in. He thinks he should be offended probably, that Thorn didn't have the faith that Casimir wouldn't bolt, but given his track record, he can't fault him. The look on his face is radiant even as the redness blossoms into his cheeks. His hair, totally wild, sticks up in all directions and Casimir reaches a hand to attempt smooth it down against his head. He's totally unsuccessful, of course, but it's a valiant effort. It makes him feel oddly domestic, and his own cheeks redden slightly as he drifts his hand back down to rest on Thorn's shoulder.
All things considered, he probably should start to disentangle himself. Not from an emotional perspective, though his heart still rabbits frantically in his chest and his fight-or-flight thrums low in his veins, but from a practical one. He's a little damp from all his all-night worrying, his already slightly gross bartender's shirt now spotted with sweat. His lips curve up into a ghost of a smile at Thorn's slightly shocked exclamation, the utter elation in the courtesan's tone inspiring something strangely warm peeking through the already widened cracks in his armor. Thorn's eyes are too widened in surprised for it to be flattery, or deceit to try and and keep Casimir with him, and Casimir cannot attribute the emotion in his voice to anything than genuine joy.
The fear that sparks is routine now, an injured dog snapping at a gentle hand, but is no less fierce in its movement.
Casimir does not respond to Thorn's exclamation, but knows he doesn't expect him to. He lets the slight upward curve of his mouth speak for itself. He shifts slightly under Thorn, trying to wake up his frozen arms, realizing now just how cramped he had grown in his nighttime vigil over Thorn's sleeping body. He would feel it for certain later that day at his shift on the bar, neck cricking and back aching, but the regret doesn't flow into him yet. Not yet.
All things considered, he probably should start to disentangle himself. Not from an emotional perspective, though his heart still rabbits frantically in his chest and his fight-or-flight thrums low in his veins, but from a practical one. He's a little damp from all his all-night worrying, his already slightly gross bartender's shirt now spotted with sweat. His lips curve up into a ghost of a smile at Thorn's slightly shocked exclamation, the utter elation in the courtesan's tone inspiring something strangely warm peeking through the already widened cracks in his armor. Thorn's eyes are too widened in surprised for it to be flattery, or deceit to try and and keep Casimir with him, and Casimir cannot attribute the emotion in his voice to anything than genuine joy.
The fear that sparks is routine now, an injured dog snapping at a gentle hand, but is no less fierce in its movement.
Casimir does not respond to Thorn's exclamation, but knows he doesn't expect him to. He lets the slight upward curve of his mouth speak for itself. He shifts slightly under Thorn, trying to wake up his frozen arms, realizing now just how cramped he had grown in his nighttime vigil over Thorn's sleeping body. He would feel it for certain later that day at his shift on the bar, neck cricking and back aching, but the regret doesn't flow into him yet. Not yet.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
