i'm a thinker, not a talker
Casimir should have anticipated the question turning back on him, but he had been too busy enraptured by the wistfulness of Thorn's thoughtful answers, feeling his thumb rub against the soft back of the other's hand. When he does ask the question, Casimir stiffens under his touch before, the motion of his thumb pausing, before slowly returning back to its movement. The metronome of his thumb moves in time with his heart, faster than it had been before, and he inhales a deep breath, trying to bring the racing of his heart back under his control.
Much like Thorn, Casimir doesn't know. Unlike Thorn, Casimir doesn't even have an inkling of answer, doesn't even have a concept of an island paradise to do nothing in. All in a single crashing moment, he realizes how little of an answer he has, how he does not even have anything as simple as a dream job or personal fantasy to keep himself sane while he pours endless drinks at the same bar night after night. If this is life after death, there's no future to rely on or run towards, not even a guaranteed tomorrow.
Ideas flash through his head, all bleaker and more panicked than the previous: he could return to fighting, let the strength of his body carry him through the nights and turn off the whisper of his conscience; he could keep tending bar for endless days and days; he could...?
He can't imagine anything else for himself.
"I don't know," He chokes out, pulling his hand free from Thorn's to bury his face in it.
Much like Thorn, Casimir doesn't know. Unlike Thorn, Casimir doesn't even have an inkling of answer, doesn't even have a concept of an island paradise to do nothing in. All in a single crashing moment, he realizes how little of an answer he has, how he does not even have anything as simple as a dream job or personal fantasy to keep himself sane while he pours endless drinks at the same bar night after night. If this is life after death, there's no future to rely on or run towards, not even a guaranteed tomorrow.
Ideas flash through his head, all bleaker and more panicked than the previous: he could return to fighting, let the strength of his body carry him through the nights and turn off the whisper of his conscience; he could keep tending bar for endless days and days; he could...?
He can't imagine anything else for himself.
"I don't know," He chokes out, pulling his hand free from Thorn's to bury his face in it.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
