// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
There’s a part of Thorn that wants to stick his fingers into Casimir’s chest, to rip open every nook and cranny of the dark voids within him that scream of loneliness and worry and fear and shove his light into them. He wants to dust away the cobwebs of the man’s ribcage and plant fresh flowers, something to be cultivated and grown. And yet, throughout all of this, it’s never really occurred to Thorn whether or not it was something Casimir even wanted.
It’s almost a standoff – the way Thorn sits there and looks up at Casimir with an openness not many got to see from him. The way he offers out all those quick fixes because he also doesn’t know what it means. He’d been quietly pining after this man for years in all his dark stoicism and gruff answers and yet, to have him right within his grip leaves him like the cat that chased the toy forever and finally clamped his paw down on it.
Only, unlike the natural predators a feline often was, Thorn doesn’t know what to do with it now that he has it.
The murmur should be enough for him to ask about it, to maybe sit back and take in the events of the past few days. The realization that maybe he should ask what Casimir wants. Did he want to be held gently and kissed and loved? And if he didn’t, would it keep Thorn from continuing to try and show him that he deserved some semblance of happiness when he truly didn’t know what Casimir’s past was apart from the rumors the courtesans threw out willy nilly.
“S’not like you’re very vocal ‘bout it.” Thorn offers, though it isn’t a judgement. It’s said more like an observation – that Thorn wants to know anything about him he can, but he hadn’t had the option to learn. “You plannin’ on starting soon?” He asks, letting Casimir search his face, finding it open and warm and inviting. “We can start easy first. Like… What’s you're favorite color?”
It’s almost a standoff – the way Thorn sits there and looks up at Casimir with an openness not many got to see from him. The way he offers out all those quick fixes because he also doesn’t know what it means. He’d been quietly pining after this man for years in all his dark stoicism and gruff answers and yet, to have him right within his grip leaves him like the cat that chased the toy forever and finally clamped his paw down on it.
Only, unlike the natural predators a feline often was, Thorn doesn’t know what to do with it now that he has it.
The murmur should be enough for him to ask about it, to maybe sit back and take in the events of the past few days. The realization that maybe he should ask what Casimir wants. Did he want to be held gently and kissed and loved? And if he didn’t, would it keep Thorn from continuing to try and show him that he deserved some semblance of happiness when he truly didn’t know what Casimir’s past was apart from the rumors the courtesans threw out willy nilly.
“S’not like you’re very vocal ‘bout it.” Thorn offers, though it isn’t a judgement. It’s said more like an observation – that Thorn wants to know anything about him he can, but he hadn’t had the option to learn. “You plannin’ on starting soon?” He asks, letting Casimir search his face, finding it open and warm and inviting. “We can start easy first. Like… What’s you're favorite color?”
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
