i'm a thinker, not a talker
The thing is—
Casimir doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t think he deserves to be held in Thorn’s gentle arms, much less knows if he wants it under all the fear panic. Perhaps the reason he asked Thorn what was next was because he was hoping the courtesan, in all his lovely confidence and that assurance he always wore like a cape would simply tell him, and Casimir would nod and tilt his head towards Thorn’s hand again in hopes he’d take his chin again. Perhaps Thorn would just merely tell him to stay, and Casimir would, in this limbo of holding and being held, and the world would stop turning just for them.
It is when Thorn asks him that easy question, a simple lobby just to try and get the words dislodged from Casimir’s throat that the bartender realizes perhaps he doesn’t know what he wants because he doesn’t know who he is. He knows what he is: quiet and grumpy and taciturn and stoic and broken and bleeding and hurting and running, but after those words, the definition that makes up Casimir begins to peter away. He knows who he used to be, and what he became, but he doesn’t know what Casimir present is. And he doesn’t know, by extension, what Thorn wants to hold in him.
Thorn’s careful observation, spoken neutrally, still sends some sort of unreadable flicker in Casimir’s eyes, and he has to push through the gum built up in his throat.
”Yellow,” He lies, because it’s better than telling Thorn he has no idea, and he’s always liked the way the yellow of the sun refracts from the glasses on the bar, and he could be the kind of person who likes yellow, maybe.
Casimir doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t think he deserves to be held in Thorn’s gentle arms, much less knows if he wants it under all the fear panic. Perhaps the reason he asked Thorn what was next was because he was hoping the courtesan, in all his lovely confidence and that assurance he always wore like a cape would simply tell him, and Casimir would nod and tilt his head towards Thorn’s hand again in hopes he’d take his chin again. Perhaps Thorn would just merely tell him to stay, and Casimir would, in this limbo of holding and being held, and the world would stop turning just for them.
It is when Thorn asks him that easy question, a simple lobby just to try and get the words dislodged from Casimir’s throat that the bartender realizes perhaps he doesn’t know what he wants because he doesn’t know who he is. He knows what he is: quiet and grumpy and taciturn and stoic and broken and bleeding and hurting and running, but after those words, the definition that makes up Casimir begins to peter away. He knows who he used to be, and what he became, but he doesn’t know what Casimir present is. And he doesn’t know, by extension, what Thorn wants to hold in him.
Thorn’s careful observation, spoken neutrally, still sends some sort of unreadable flicker in Casimir’s eyes, and he has to push through the gum built up in his throat.
”Yellow,” He lies, because it’s better than telling Thorn he has no idea, and he’s always liked the way the yellow of the sun refracts from the glasses on the bar, and he could be the kind of person who likes yellow, maybe.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
